Where Your Allegiance Lies
by Zephyira
Summary: Are you there God? Its me, Castiel. Castiel is still searching, still coming up blank when Zachariah and 'the persuaders' catch up to him. Allegiance is a funny thing, it can get you killed if you don't pick the right side... rated for violence, no slash
1. Chapter 1

Castiel can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise up and he turns.

"I've got to go." He says, hanging up.

He hears Dean begins to protest but the connection ends before he finishes.

He surveys the old wooden refuge. He'd sought out this sacred place, once an old monk's home, at the top of a mountain in Burma. He pulls out the necklace from his pocket, Dean's necklace. The amulet is staying annoyingly cold and dull. He sighs, looking around aimlessly at the shack's dilapidated walls. Its clear God is not here either. Castiel sighs, leaning against the worn wall as he gazes out across the tree tops, tropical and lush at this time of year, glittering in the sunlight with a layer of fresh rain. He knows what he's seeing is supposed to be beautiful but he can't see it right now. He's so tired, so worn out. Sick of it all. He wants to rest but he has no idea where. Heaven is out of the question, there's nowhere but Dean's Impala or Bobby's but he doubts he'd be welcome at either location. Dean isn't exactly agreeable with him at the moment, and he suspects Bobby only tolerates him solely because of Dean. And what would he do once there? He's finding his charges and their relatives to be quite the glum group as of late. But nobody really has a reason to be happy.

He sighs, pushing off the wall and stepping into the middle of the room. He should call Dean back, tell him it was nothing. Maybe he'll call him from his next location. He's prepared to leap into flight when a sudden voice from behind startles him.

"Always hated this place. Guy prayed too much. Never shut up." Zachariah says, surveying the shack with a vague interest.

Castiel whirls around, sword manifesting in his hand.

"Whoa, kiddo. No need to over react." Zachariah says, hands coming up in a supposedly calming gesture but it looks rather mocking on the angel.  
"Oh, I believe I have every reason to react." Castiel replies, eyes fixed on him.  
"I just want to talk."  
"I'm not interested."  
Castiel is about to take off when something red hot slices across his lower back. He jerks forward, someone grabbing the back of his neck and before he can even defend himself a blade cuts clean through his shoulder. A strangled cry manages past his throat as the hand tightens, choking him. He can see the tip of the sword jutting from his shoulder out of the corner of his eye but he can feel the jarring agony of it more, seemingly rattling his grace with the force of it. He stabs backwards, his opponent leaping back, taking their sword with them. It tears out of his shoulder, flesh ripping, muscles severed. He pivots, ignoring the pain as much as he can. He parries another blow, flinging the other angel's arm aside. He changes sword hands quickly, plunging the blade into the vessel's chest before he can recover. He hardly has a second to waste as he frees his blade and the angel falls screaming to the floor but he's still not fast enough as two pairs of hands grab him and he's yanked back and pressed against the wall, eliciting a sharp cry as his shoulder cracks against the wood. His sword is knocked from his hand before he can retaliate, skittering across the floor as a blade is pressed sharply to his throat, ceasing his struggles abruptly. He can see his attackers now, although he doesn't recognize the vessels the strong, reverberating presences of the angels within rings familiar.

"Leochoir-" He says, recognizing an angel from his garrison.

He only gets that far when the two angels wrench his hands above his head and pin them with a sword. He screams, the sensitive flesh burning against the sword, fingers clenching reflexively as blood begins to dribble down his hands, staining his coat sleeves. Terror is now starting to plague him, the pain only intensifying now that he can't move, can't escape and he's faced with three aggressive angels, specifically Zachariah who has a particular vendetta against him. It all happened so fast he's only now just grasping the full extent of what's happened. He's breathing hard, eyes flitting between the two angels in front of him. His shoulder is bloody and painful, throbbing with each heart beat and making his left arm near useless with all the severed muscles and arteries, pumping blood out of him at an alarming pace with his increased heart rate. He gently tests his hands, a vague hope that he can free himself fading as he finds he can only push forward with his right hand, which is trapped under his left and that causes unbelievable pain to shoot through his arm and shoulders.

"Well, ready to talk now?" Zachariah taunts, stepping forward as Leochoir and Josiah move aside.

He glances at the body of the dead angel with not so much as a hint of empathy or caring, merely looking at it.

"I still have nothing to say to you." Castiel says.

He tests his hands again which doesn't help the pain.  
"Come now, Castiel. You're willing to blow me off that quickly, given I'm holding your life in my hands?"  
With those ominously spoken words Castiel spots the sword which has materialized in Zachariah's hand. Castiel is no fool, he realizes the position he's in but he knows that whatever Zachariah has to say he can't possibly agree to or do.

"Now, Castiel, I know what you're thinking. But I just want you to know, I'm not here to ask after the Winchesters. In fact, I couldn't care less about them right now. I'm here for you."  
The chilling words only further sink his heart in his chest. He has no doubt what this will mean. Another stint in Heaven's prison will be even worse than the first time. He should have left the moment he sense danger. How could he be so stupid? He fully appreciates the use of the word right now. He imagines Dean would describe it as 'being screwed.' He laughs grimly inside at the thought. Zachariah seems to pick up on his train of thought. He laughs and shakes his head.

"You don't understand. I'm not taking you back to Heaven. This isn't about the upstairs bureaucracy. This is personal."  
"Why?" Castiel grits out, trying to work the sword out of the wall but is only succeeding in hurting himself.

"You are standing in between me and those flannel wearing idiots. And you did banish me the night of the Apocalypse, that's not something I can let you get away with."

At that Zachariah lashes out, two inches of blade cut across his stomach, a gush of blood flowing out into his shirt. Castiel bites his lip as he watches the blood spread out over his clothing, refusing to make a sound. The red wave soaks the bottom of his shirt, quickly over saturating it and dripping to the old floor that sucks the blood up greedily.

"What do you want?" He asks, forcing his eyes back to Zachariah, trying to ignore the sick warm feeling spilling over his skin, making his shirt cling uncomfortably. Zachariah takes a slow, heavy step forward, carefully pressing the tip higher up on Castiel's abdomen as he leans in.

"Those country bumpkins will throw themselves into the fire to save each other. They care so little for themselves that they will continually sacrifice one for the other, over and _over _again. My little pet project is to find out what will they do for the angel who has given them everything? Especially when they find him dying?"  
"Killing me will not make them say yes."  
"Oh, no, they won't know what killed you, signs will indicate Demons. The fact that Lucifer himself ordered you demise will only further push Dean into our hands. Your death will throw them off. With the loss of one of their precious few _allies_, they'll come to realize the only way to save this world is to say yes. He'll be mourning and Michael will come and, well, you know the story."  
He slashes again, another line cutting just below his ribs.

"They will not say yes." He grits.

Another cut, higher up again. He holds back another cry, lip bleeding now where he bit too hard. Without stopping Zachariah presses the blade into the center of his chest, slowly drilling the tip into his flesh. Castiel gasps, trying to pull away but there's no where to go. The tip hits bone but Zachariah continues to twist, slowly working the metal through the bone. Castiel can't believe the pressure on his chest, like God's hand is bearing down on him. He can't breathe, can't scream, there's just no air to do it with. But the overwhelming pain is enough to make him black out. Before he can do that though, the blade punches through his breastbone. He jerks, pain screaming through his hands as he slams them against the hilt in a reflexive action, body jumping. He forces himself to still, feeling the tip of the blade poking a delicate lung.

"Lets see how you do with only one lung." Zachariah says, stabbing down.

Bone grates and his lung feels like it literally explodes in his chest. The force of the pain that rocks him causes him to jerk so violently his arms leap forward, tearing the sword out of the wall where it comes crashing down on Zachariah's head. If he'd actually been coherent enough to process what happened he would have taken great pleasure from Zachariah reeling back in surprise and absolute shock at the blow. As is, Castiel collapses to the floor, gasping for breath, hands and shoulder burning. He hears Zachariah shout something and hurried footsteps before he takes off, fleeing as fast as he can. With his injuries though he doesn't make it very far, only getting to the coast of Africa before crashing into the shallow water off the Ivory Coast. Spluttering, gasping for air and trying to make his uncoordinated limbs work for him he feels panic tight in his chest, the lack of air not helping any. He crawls out of the water, sprawling on the sand, legs still lapped at by the ocean. He pants, gasping for what meagre amount of air he can get when he feels his hands again, still pinned together by the sword. With agonized slowness he twists his hands, pressing the blade tip into the sand until his hands start to slide down it. He bites his lip again, prompting more blood to spill down his chin. He works one hand off the blade, then limply circling his fingers around the handle and managing to draw it out with his injured hand. He drops the sword, laying his head back down as he focuses on breathing again. He can still breathe, even with only one lung, though with the exertion of flying and the adrenaline flooding his vessel it's painstakingly difficult. He tries to refill the lung, to seal it back up and breathe again but it won't cooperate, broken edges tattered and torn. His addled mind knows he has to leave, to flee further but his wings won't lift, won't take him away. Struggling, gasping and wheezing, he makes it to his knees, pausing for breath before making the herculean effort to get to his feet, trudging forwards. It's only now he notices that several people have gathered on the beach, staring at him like he's an alien that crash landed. They're dark skinned and poorly dressed but that doesn't change the fact two of them are holding tire irons and a third a loaded rifle that's pointed casually in his direction. Even like this, neither weapon will do him any more damage but he will not be able to fight them off, assuming Zachariah doesn't show up to finish what he's started. And he really would prefer to not be shot full of lead at the moment, even if it non-detrimental, it still stings for a bit.

He begins to limp down the beach, making a move to skirt them when one of them shouts at him to freeze and drop his wallet. If he had a wallet to drop he would, seeing as he doesn't though, he's reached an impasse. Realizing he can't simply find a nice quiet place to ward off and cloister himself until he heals, he forces his wings up and is just off the ground when something crashes into him with all the force of a mountain. He's launched back into the water, a heavy weight on top of him, forcing him under the shallow waves. Castiel feels Leochoir's aura, violent and enraged as he pushes his head under, hands locking around his neck.

Castiel struggles up, battling for air as he breaks the surface, taking a long gasp before he's shoved back under, Leochoir shaking him like a dog trying to kill a rabbit. He uses his weight to pin him down, knees on his stomach, pushing his wounds agonizingly. Castiel struggles, but injured as he is he has no hope against Leochoir. Still, he struggles. The lack of air is getting to him, the pain radiating through him not helping any. The salt water all around him scorches his raw wounds. He can feel the will to close his eyes becoming stronger than his own, telling him to give up and just go under. With his last shred of will he materializes his sword and lashes out. Leochoir dodges back but his sword flails wildly, slitting Castiel's throat without even meaning to. Castiel's hands fly to his throat, one hand groping for Dean's necklace. His fingers lock around the pendent as he spreads his wings and flies away.


	2. Chapter 2

_Leochoir dodges back but his sword flails wildly, slitting Castiel's throat without even meaning to. Castiel's hands fly to his throat, one hand groping for Dean's necklace. His fingers lock around the pendent as he spreads his wings and flies away._

* * *

He crashes into the front of the Impala, doubling over the hood as he hacks up water, jarring all his injuries. He moans as he desperately clings to the hood to keep from sliding to the ground. He feels like he's suffocating, one lungful of fought for air not enough, no where near enough for him. He stops breathing for a moment, putting all his concentration into putting his punctured lung back together. He channels his grace, gathering all the tattered edges and pulling them together, rebuilding extra tissue where he can't find the original. It feels like an eternity before he's able to breathe again, both lungs accepting air now. He lies like that for a long time, too long, sucking in as much as he can until the burning in his lungs subsides. He wants to let go, just lie down and sleep but somewhere in his still functioning brain he knows that's a bad idea. If he goes down here he'll never get back up. And Dean could very well run over him if he passes out in front of the Impala in this darkness.

He lifts his hand to his throat where Leochoir's sword cut him. He was sure it had cut right through but apparently it only sliced through layers of flesh and muscle, just shy of severing his trachea. He says a little prayer of thanks for that, because if that had been the case, he wouldn't be breathing at all.

The burn has left his lungs, letting him focus on the many other pains plaguing him. He lets himself breathe, getting a grip before lifting a weary head as he surveys his surroundings.

The Impala is parked in a very deserted parking lot outside a 24/7 diner. Castiel can't see them through the windows from this distance, big, ferny plants sheltering the view. It sends a pang of hurt through him. He can't go in there, not like this, not without causing quite the stir and prompting human intervention. He doesn't want that, he just wants to get to Dean and Sam. And in a small way…for once…he just wants to be taken care of, not have to run away and heal in some secluded place, possibly dying there and no one ever knowing. He knows Dean and Sam wouldn't be happy to hear he's been doing that, he's had more than one altercation with his siblings as of late, but never this bad, nothing he couldn't fix himself or just give it time to heal. Seclusion is not an option this time, these wounds are too severe. He leans heavily on the hood, clutching at Dean's necklace and calling out to him mentally, trying to connect with him.

_Dean, Sam. Help. I need help._

He's not even sure if the message got through but he's too weary to send another one. Too weary to walk, talk, even breathing is creeping its way onto the 'too hard to do' list growing in his head. With his last bit of strength he flutters his way inside the car, settling in the back seat as he slumps against the door. Before he can totally forget he gathers some blood on his fingers from the worst wounds on his stomach, swiping heavy fingers across the glass as he draws the warding symbol. He has more than enough blood to decorate the whole car in sigils if he so desired, but the one will do. As his bloody hand falls back he vaguely thinks that Dean will be mad at all the blood on the upholstery, but it's a fleeting thought as he closes his eyes. He can always fix it when he's better, good as new. A shiver works its way through him, causing him to frown. He's never shivered before, though he's seen humans do it when they're cold. He's not cold though, at least he doesn't think so. His thoughts become jumbled and a touch mundane as he absently reaches out beside him, fingers hooking into a pile of clothes on the back seat. He glances at the mound of material then very slowly works two coats from the pile, draping them over himself. Though it brings no warmth to him and the shivering doesn't stop he feels some comfort from the objects before he lets himself drift off into oblivion.

* * *

Dean is slurping down the last of his coffee when he feels a sudden cold rush over him and an uneasy feeling wrap itself around him. Sam fidgets too, feeling the same eerie sensation. The brothers look at each other, understanding instantly.

"Ghost?" Dean says, hand instinctively gravitating to his gun.

Sam sneaks out his EMF detector, turning it on. The dial doesn't even jump beyond normal.

"Maybe it's a draft?"  
"Accompanied by a bad feeling? I doubt it." Dean says.  
"Should we clear out?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

Dean pays for their meal while Sam keeps his eyes peeled for anything suspicious but nothing catches his attention, just a quiet diner with a sleepy cashier and one other patron sitting innocuously in the corner. As they're crossing the parking lot the feeling only becomes stronger and it's starting to really set the hunters on edge. Sam's hand is on Ruby's knife and Dean is about a breath away from shooting the first thing that moves.

"This is bad. I'm getting such a bad feeling from this." Dean mutters.

The darkness and eerie quietness of the highway parking lot is doing nothing to help the men's nerves so Sam quickly opens the door to the car when Dean suddenly stops, staring intently at the hood.

"What is it?" Sam asks.

Dean reaches down, fingers skimming the hood and coming up darkened. Sam retrieves his flashlight shining it at Dean's hand, red smeared over his fingers.

Blood.

That's when Dean spots the dripping blood sigil on his side in the back window. He doesn't recognize the symbol which means his gun is out and he's advancing on the back. He yanks the door open, gun snapping up to point at the slouched figure there.

"Who are you?" He demands, not recognizing the bloody figure huddled underneath the coats. "Wait, Cas?"

Two blue eyes open, looking up at him, pain ingrained in them.

"Dean?" Castiel croaks.

"Cas?" Sam says from the front, coming around and opening the other door.

"Dude, what happened?" Dean says, putting away his gun and squeezing into the cramped spot next to Castiel. Sam slides in on the other side a second later and the angel turns to look at him, pleading with his eyes. It doesn't take any convincing for the brothers to help him.

"Sammy, bandages." Dean says, peeling away the coats that have glued themselves down with blood. Dean doesn't miss the fact that is Sam and his spare coats Castiel chose, not the blanket in the pile beside him.

As Dean tosses the coats aside he notices the blood cascading down Castiel's neck, turning the neckline of his shirt a bright crimson. He cups his hand against Castiel's neck, feeling his heart leap into his own throat at the surge of blood that fights against his palm.

"Cas, can you breathe?" Dean says, face desperately anxious.

Castiel can't find the words as Dean braces his other hand against the back of his neck, putting just enough pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding, but not enough to make it harder to breathe. Regardless though, Castiel is having trouble doing just that but at least he _is_ getting air and isn't suffocating from a slit throat.

There's a lot more blood than just from the neck wound, Castiel's shirt is almost completely red with his own blood and torn, sagging under the soaking weight. Dean stares angrily at the rips, wanting to open them up and take a look, but he can't while he's holding Castiel's neck together.

"Who did this to you? Was it angels?" Dean asks, glancing at the sigil on the window in dark red, arterial blood.

"Zachariah." He manages to mutter.

Dean has to quell a surge of anger for the nasty, son-of-a-bitch angel who's now number one on his shit list.

"Okay, okay, don't talk anymore. We're going to fix you up. Just rest, okay, we'll take care of everything. Breathe, Cas." He reminds him.

Castiel looks up at Dean, eyes tired and pained as he manages a small nod. Dean holds that stare for a second longer before Sam nudges his shoulder, bandages and towels in his arms. Dean snags a towel from his hand, replacing it under his hand and pressing down once again over the still bleeding slit. It's bloodied instantly and that upsets Dean more than he'll ever admit. Sam has gotten back in on the other side, working on peeling back Castiel's blood soaked coat and then tearing open his dress shirt.

"Oh, my God, Cas, this is bad." Sam says.

Dean sees the layers of red lines carved across Castiel's stomach and nearly chokes, feeling anger surging up in him, powerful and red hot. Just the seeing his friend like this and knowing who did it makes him want to hunt down that son-of-a-bitch and roast him alive. He pushes the rage back down though, it's not what he needs right now, he needs to focus. He needs to focus on Castiel to be able to help him. Sam is clearing away the dried blood, still wet blood oozing from the three gashes he's unearthed. He's doing a hap-hazard job, just trying to clear enough of it away so he can see, that's when he notices the circular puncture dead center on Castiel's chest.

"What's this? What happened here?" He asks, pressing the towel down on it.

"Punched…a hole…in my chest…pierced bone…and my…lung." Castiel gasps.

"Is it okay? Have you healed it?" Dean asks.

Castiel manages some sort of half nod, eyes hooded.

"Might…not hold."

Both brothers glance at each other. Sam only spares a second on it, preparing more towels and folding them double over each other, placing them on the slashes across Castiel's stomach and chest.

"Okay, Cas, hold this down, press hard." He instructs.

"I…can't." Castiel says.

"What? Why?" Dean asks, checking the blood flow from his neck to find it's lessened.

Castiel lifts his hands for the first time, holding them up in the air like he has no idea what to do with them and the brothers see the damage there as well.

"Jesus!" Dean growls.

As far as injuries rank on Dean's mental scale, holes in hands are pretty low compared to slit throats, cut up stomachs and chest punctures but he knows from experience they hurt like a bitch and are rather debilitating. Sam is on it before he even has to ask. Dean moves his other hand to press on the towels at Castiel's stomach while Sam takes a roll of bandages and hastily wraps them around his hands. It's not ideal but right now it's all far from ideal.

"Cas, is there anywhere else you're hurt that we can't see?"

"My back…cut…and my wing…"

Dean's heart just about stops.

"I can…fix the wing…but…"

"Okay, okay good, not ready to play angel-medicine-woman on you. Don't try too hard though. We've got your back."

Castiel doesn't get the joke, mainly from the fact he can hardly see straight let alone decipher the complexity of Dean's speech patterns. That and blood is still lethargically trickling down his throat, collecting in his stomach which is starting to hurt. He lets himself relax all the way back against the seat, forcing his taunt muscles to smooth out, trying to ignore the blistering pain that's slowly numbing parts of his body. He can't feel his fingers and his legs are only an after thought. He can feel Sam's arm work around the hollow in his back, locating the wound and working a folded towel behind him to cover it. With each agonizing breath he can feel Dean's hand rise above his throat, he can feel Sam's hands pressing down on his chest through the cloth that is quickly soaking with blood, and despite his desperate situation he draws some comfort from just having the two of them there. His eyes are closed for all of five seconds before Dean is shaking his shoulder roughly, at least as roughly as he can for someone whose throat he's holding together. None the less, it jars his punctured breastbone and the cuts across his chest, making him wince as he sucks in a sharp breath.

"No checking out Cas, stay awake."  
"I am awake. I was…resting."

"Rest with your eyes open." There's a pause. "Cas, are you ever going to stop bleeding?"

His voice sounds small, worried, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud. Dean tosses a second towel aside, replacing it with another, pushing harder which only serves to make breathing that much more difficult, rasping more than anything else. After about a minute of that Sam is about to tell Dean to quit choking Castiel when he pulls his hand away and the towel with it. The blood flow has lessened a little, down to a trickle.  
"Sam, bandages."  
Stitching it up is the first thing that comes to Dean's mind but right now there's too many other open, bleeding wounds to focus on And he's never stitched a neck wound before and, honestly, the thought terrifies. And that Castiel should be his first try at it makes his throat go dry. The guy is so wounded, he doesn't need an inexperienced surgeon screwing him up more than he already is. So, Dean opts to get it wrapped up, if only to make it look better, but he thinks there isn't much else he can do right now, short of completely cutting off Castiel's air by pressing harder. The bandages are handed to him and he begins threading them around Castiel's neck, wrapping them tight and praying not to see any blood leak through. To his surprise, none does and his breathing seems to even out to a better pace, still too short and shallow but at least not grating and painful sounding. Its only now that he notices Castiel's near trademark blue tie is absent.

Castiel tries to stay awake as the brothers continue to tend to his injuries, pushing and prodding at him in a way that only sends pain through him. As it goes on he becomes worse and worse at hiding just how much pain he's in. More than once a groan escapes him, often followed by a wince till he knows his face is continually contorted is pain and he can't stop the small gasps that escape him at nearly every touch, his mind overwrought and his body too sensitive. At some point he stops bleeding and he hears the Winchesters whispering solemnly and urgently.

"We have to get him to a hospital. What can we do for him here? He's too injured."  
"What if he instant heals in front of all those doctors?"  
"It's better than having him die in the back seat! Miracle of God, anything will do for an explanation!" Sam argues.

He tries to block out their arguing, unwilling and unable to offer his own input. He doesn't want to go to a hospital. He knows from experience though, through watching the Winchesters, that the injured party never gets a say. They're too often delirious. And he's not sure he's too far from that either. The sigil on the window that he's been staring at for some time seems to be warping, peeling off the glass and floating in the air. He's so obsessed with the wayward mark that he doesn't even notice his breathing ratchet up a notch, each draw of air becoming harder and harder to get to his lungs. The Winchesters are still arguing quietly (well, Sam is) when Castiel yanks his attention away from his hallucination with a harsh cough that splutters out, jerking his whole body painfully and tearing at his throat. Now he knows for certain he's not getting enough air, lungs burning as he tries to recover, to breathe one easy breath. God, is it too much to ask for the ability to breathe?

"What's wrong Cas?" Dean asks, sounding alarmed as he crowds Castiel once more.  
"I'm…"  
He frowns, like he can't believe it. But it's all too real, the gentle swell of blood in the bottom of his lungs, the rasp of each breath through his throat and the continual ache of his wounds.

"I'm…having trouble…breathing." He gasps out.

A surge of pain rockets up his spine and he knows no more.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_He frowns, like he can't believe it. But it's all too real, the gentle swell of blood in the bottom of his lungs, the rasp of each breath through his throat and the continual ache of his wounds._

"_I'm…having trouble…breathing." He gasps out. _

_A surge of pain rockets up his spine and he knows no more._

Dean is gripping the angel's shoulders tightly, as if that will help him breathe. Castiel gasps, trying to form words but instead his eyes roll back in his head and he starts shaking violently.

"Whoa, Cas!" Dean shouts, trying to hold him still and failing.

"Get him on his side, he's having a seizure!" Sam says.

Dean quickly manoeuvres Castiel onto his side, putting as much weight on his injured side as he dares. The quantity of blood already on the seats doubles suddenly, cascading onto the floor like a grotesque waterfall.

"Oh, my god!" Dean curses.

"Dean we have to call somebody, he's going to die."

Dean shoots a glance at Sam, looks back to Castiel, hands still braced against his shaking form that's still violently stronger than him. Panic, fear and indecision linger there a moment, caught in the terror of the moment at what's happening right before his eyes. Castiel jerks sharply, nearly throwing Dean as he coughs up a dark gout of blood that spills from his mouth, enough to prove there's serious internal damage. Without another word Sam fishes out his cellphone, dialling 911. Dean can't tear his stare from Castiel, trying to keep him as still as he continues to cough and jerk. Sam's voice registers vaguely in the back of his mind.

"Yes, our friend has been attacked, he's bleeding out and he's having a seizure. We're at Celeste's diner on highway 78. Please, hurry." He says.

He all but drops the phone as he adds his weight to the spasaming angel who is obviously still too strong for Dean, he can hardly keep the angel from bucking off the seats. The episode goes on too long for comfort, nearly three whole minutes before it slows down to a tremble and that's where it stays. Castiel lays there, tremors running through him as he pants, sucking in feeble, shallow breaths. The violent movement has reopened some of his wounds, renewed blood follow once again pouring out. The brothers are trying to stop that when the ambulance finally shows up after three minutes. Sam is out of the car, but Dean can't move, hands still on Castiel's shoulder and chest as the sirens wail outside. He's staring at Castiel when his eyes suddenly flutter open. They lock onto Dean, bleary and out of focus, but conscious.

And alive.

He looks like he's about to say something when a hand on Dean's shoulder pulls him back and out of the car.

"Step back." The paramedic orders him, pushing him away from the Impala.

He falls back with Sam, staring numbly as the paramedics work fast. Within a minute they're transferring Castiel out of the car and onto a stretcher. The angel is complainant and limp until they start securing him down.

"Dean? Sam? Where are you?" He calls out.

Castiel is trying to sit up but the paramedics hold him still, wrangling his arms in to stop him from trying to get up. His head is darting from side to side, frantically searching for them. Dean gets there first, dropping down beside one of the paramedics.

"We're here. Just taking you to a hospital is all." He says quietly.  
Castiel's eyes widen in alarm.

"I don't need a hospital." He says quickly, ending up slurred and only half coherent.

"No worries, man. It's all okay. Just go to sleep."  
"I don't sleep, Dean." He protests.

"Give it a test run."

The paramedics finish strapping him down and pick up the board, rushing him to the ambulance. Dean keeps pace right until they load him up. One paramedic is about to warn him back when he blurts.

"He's my brother, I'm going!"  
He shoves his arm aside, following him in. They don't try to stop him as he climbs inside, squeezing in next to Castiel's head. The paramedic is doing his best to staunch the bleeding, but its doing little good, his gloves stained with copious amounts of blood still gushing from the angel. Dean has to force himself to keep his semblance of calm, watching Castiel literally die right before his eyes. Castiel suddenly groans, eyes fluttering open weakly, eyes glazed and bloodshot. He tries to move, when he finds he can't his eyes go wide with panic.  
"Its okay, Cas. Its okay, I'm here." Dean reaches out, setting one hand on his good shoulder, the other on his forehead, feeling a little awkward, but desperate to somehow comfort him when he's in so much pain. Might even be dying. He shakes the thought away. Angel's can't die, not like this.

And if an angel, even a wounded one, gets too scared he might fly off or break something in a startling show of strength. And if he did flap his feathery ass off somewhere then they'd be really screwed. So, he's got to keep him calm, and he'll do whatever that takes. Castiel looks back as far as he can, eyes finding Dean before he settles.

"You've got to stay here, okay Cas? Remember, you haven't found God yet. You have to find him before you check out, okay?"

"I can't…find him." He mutters, eyes sliding back to look at the ceiling.

"But you will. So, you can't die, just…promise me, Cas. Just promise."  
"Dean…"  
"Promise me!" Dean insists.  
"I still have…your necklace."

It's only then that Dean notices that familiar shape, hanging off to the side of Castiel's chest, tinted in blood.

"Dean…I'm sorry."  
"For what, man?" Dean asks, curious about what he's going to say.

"That…I can't be more useful…let Anna down…can't find God…couldn't fix you after Hell…I'm…sorry."

Dean is hit with the enormity of the words, the way Castiel seems desperate yet reluctant to admit them, choking them out as he's dying…

"No man, its all okay. You're doing what you can. We all are." He says, gripping his shoulder gently but trying to imbue some small comfort in the gesture.

"Could have done more…" He mutters.

"No way, don't worry about it right now. Just…rest."

"Will you visit me?" He asks.

Dean doesn't like it the minute he hears it but he humours the guy.

"Where?"

"In Heaven. Will you visit me?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Make sure Anna comes….I…want to see Anna…maybe Uriel…Sam too…Bobby should come…"

His eyes roll back to Dean who swallows hard.

"Yeah. Yeah, everyone will come." Dean reassures him.

"Make sure."

A small smile graces his bloody lips and for a moment Dean thinks he looks as calm and content as he's ever seen him. His eyes slowly close and Dean finds himself gripping his shoulder tighter. The paramedic checks for a pulse then speaks into his radio. Less than two minutes later they're pulling into the ambulance bay. He's pushed to the other side of the ambulance as the paramedics and nurses unload Castiel. He all but disappears in a flurry of blue and pinks scrubs as he's rushed inside, Dean racing to catch up. Seconds before he disappears through the door Castiel's hand shoots out, magically free of the restraints, grabbing onto his coat. For a brief moment Dean clutches at his hand, blood drenched fingers squelching together. Then he's wrenched away, disappearing behind swinging doors and a crush of doctors and nurses. Dean is left standing in the waiting room, staring till the doors stop swinging. A nurse approaches him, a hand on his shoulder and one on his back guiding him to take a seat. Dean glances around to see all the other assorted people in the waiting room are staring at him, eyes skittering away when he looks up. It's only then that Dean fully appreciates what a mess he looks, blood drenched clothing, hands soaked in it, even his shoes are leaving red footprints and he's positive he has it on his face. One look at himself is enough to make him sick. He stalks away from everyone's prying eyes, finding a bathroom and all but stripping as he tries to scrub the blood from his hands, off his face. His clothes are a lost cost, the knees and thighs of his pants a grotesque burgundy despite his vigorous and prolonged scrubbing, his shirt and coat smeared in it as well. There's nothing more he can do here so he settles for looking like he was hit by a truck and leaves the bathroom, navigating to a secluded corner where he phones Sam.

Sam fabricated a story for the police, something about as they were walking out to the car they were attacked by some thugs. He elaborated at random, adding details that sounded false to his tired ears but the police accepted without question. It hadn't been long before all activity had died down in the parking lot, his statement taken and the police having left. He finds himself alone, staring into the back seat of the Impala which is quite drenched in blood. The floor boards are probably a lot cause, the seats might be salvageable, but Sam doubts they'll ever lose a slightly mottled red tint. He tears his eyes away. Just looking at it is making his stomach roll and the thought that the seats might not be the only salvageable thing from this mess. What if Castiel isn't salvageable? A deep, almost guilty sort of worry works its way through him, almost painful. Fortunately, he's saved by the ringing of his phone.

"Dean. Hey, how is he?"  
"I don't know, they wheeled him away about…twenty minutes ago. I was just…getting cleaned up. You should probably do the same. This is going to take awhile."

"Yeah, what…what do you want me to do about the Impala?"

There's a long pause before he can hear an audible sigh.

"Do what you can."

"Okay, see you soon." Sam replies.

"Yeah."  
Dean hangs up first, leaving Sam with the phone to his ear, hoping to hear more, anything else, but static has taken over the line and that's it. He hangs up and turns his attention back to the Impala.

Castiel can't remember when he passed out, all he knows is that he did and that Dean was there. The pain spikes, something jabbing at him over and over again, making its way across his chest. It sends terror radiating through him. Is Zachariah still here? Is he in heaven, being tortured? Didn't he get away? Did he leave Dean and Sam to Zachariah without protection? He desperately crawls out of the dark hole he fell into. He finds it harder than he anticipated, like clawing through a heavy gale, a weight resting just above him. Regardless, he pushes past it, fights his way just to the brink of consciousness. Here, the pain is sharper, though at the same time dull and numb. He can feel presences surrounding him, low voices all around him. His heart leaps and along with it he can hear a fast beeping outside his body. The voices become more frantic, shouting. He peels his eyes open. Hazy figures hover over him, holding things he can't quite make out. They look like something from human horror movies. One is descending on his face, something curved cupped in its hand. That's all it takes to throw him into a full blown panic attack. Despite the pain, panic shoots his arm up, knocking the figure aside as he defeats the last dregs of the weight keeping him under. He sits straight up, startling some of the presences back. He tries to propel himself off the table, but several sets of hands grab him, trying to force him back down. It's Leochoir all over again, trying to drown him, trying to kill him. His own brother, trying to kill him, pushing his head beneath the waves, cutting his throat. Why?

He fights harder, struggling, twisting and battling the hands. They're too strong though, too many and far too powerful for him. The pain is coming back, stronger now, threatening to slow him down. He screams, a mixture of pain, rage, fear and frustration. There's a sudden sharp poke in his right arm and his head snaps that way, looking down at his arm. An empty syringe and needle are sticking out of his flesh, the contents of the vial gone as the doctor pulls it back. Castiel glances up at the woman, finally stilling in the arms that were just a moment ago fighting him. He feels something descending on him, like a blanket over his head, he's draped in what can only be described as an epic feeling of exhaustion. He fights it, but it's a lost battle before it even beings. It suffocates him in soothing blackness, offering no pain to him like a gift on a silver platter, and it won't be denied. His eyes shut and he feels nothing.

He can feel himself skimming the surface of consciousness once again, breaking it like a loon surfacing from the black murk. He opens his eyes once again to the bright light overhead and people crowded all around him. The voices pick up once again, hands clamping down on him from all angles. He tenses, bolts of fear racing through him. His eyes won't work properly, everything a little out of focus. His brain won't do as he commands. Where is he? Who are these people? Should he fight? Can he fight? He can feel himself trembling, though not from pain or fear. He realizes it's cold once again despite all the bodies pressed in around him. His eyes roam up around the blue covered figures, only their eyes visible as they all gaze down at him. They look like aliens he thinks absently, trying to stop shivering when there's a prick in his arm. He doesn't bother looking this time at the needle he knows is there. He keeps his eyes fixed on the figures above him until he is unable to do so any longer.

Dean is pacing a line in the waiting room when Sam arrives. The nurse on duty seems relieved that something has finally stopped his frantic movement.

"Any word?" Sam asks though he already knows the answer.

Dean shakes his head and takes a seat, staring out the window.

"It's been a long time." He says.

Although he doesn't say it Sam knows what he means. It's been too long not knowing what happened, how he's doing. Dean would never admit out loud (or at least not anywhere a conscious person might hear it) but he doesn't need to say anything to communicate he's worried like hell and afraid. Sam takes a seat and starts the long wait, making himself as comfortable as he can. His efforts are in vain, the chairs are made for people of a normal height and no sooner does he come to this realization does a black woman in a white lab coat approach them

"Sam and Dean?" She asks.

The brothers glance at each other, surprised by the use of first names.

"Your brother, Jimmy, has been asking for both of you for the better part of half an hour."

"Really?" Dean asks. "He's awake?"  
"No. Can I ask you a few questions?" She says, noting Dean's confusion.

They cast a sideways look at each other briefly.

"Yeah, what is it?" Sam says.

"Your brother, has he ever been sedated before?"  
"Uh…no." Dean replies, almost sensing where this is going.

"Has he ever shown unusual reactions to drugs before? Immunity, perhaps?"  
Dean wants to say 'yeah, the guy needs a whole bottle of Tylenol to get rid of a headache!'

"No." Sam answers for him.

"Did you witness the attack?"

Sam shakes his head, Dean staring intensely at the doctor.

"Why all the questions doc?" Dean demands, not liking this situation.

"During the surgery he fought the sedatives and regained consciousness _twice_, the first time becoming violent. It took four nurses to subdue him before we could sedate him again. Fifteen minutes after that he once again woke up but seemed unable to fight us, though it was obvious he was terrified, his heart rate shot through the roof."

Dean almost wants to smile, the doctor is so baffled by it all, and she's looking to them for answers. But it also worries him more. If Castiel became violent he obviously wasn't in his right mind. Sam manages to keep up the charade while Dean's attention wanders away like a lost child.

"Is that unusual doc?"  
"With what we had him on it's nothing short of miraculous. He shouldn't have been able to feel anything let alone wake up."

"Is he okay? Can we see him now?"

The doctor sighs, putting aside her own curiosity as she holds up a clipboard.

"Your brother is in critical condition, but he's stable. Aside from numerous cuts to the abdomen, back and chest, he was stabbed in the shoulder with what appears to be a hunting knife that severed several tendons and muscles and fractured his collar bone, but missed the major artery. The injury to his chest that pierced his sternum appears to have done damage to his lungs. We had to re-inflate one during surgery. The neck wound appeared superficial, it did no damage to his airway. We did what we could for his hands but several bones are broken as well as severed muscle tissue. Time will tell what we can do for that. Considering his ability to fight off the sedative and his combative nature while conscious I'd say he's probably suffering mental trauma from the incident. He's breathing on his own now, but we still have him sedated and on morphine. If you're ready you can go see him now, but I recommend caution and a calm attitude." She emphasises, looking at Dean. "If he regains consciousness again, please, call a nurse."

She hands them over to a nurse who leads them into the back. Taking them down a row of sectioned off areas, Dean and Sam get a glimpse of the other patients housed in this wing. Everyone seems to be a wreck.

"We've been having a lot of emergencies lately, so all our rooms are full. We've had to 'make room' as the government puts it. Here you go."  
She directs them to the last curtained off section at the end of the rows of green curtains, leaving them at the entrance. The brothers glance in at the seemingly small figure lying on the bed. Sam looks to Dean, expecting him to take the lead. Dean in turn looks to Sam, hoping he'll just head on in but all he finds is his little brother looking down at him. Returning his eyes to the figure on the bed he gingerly steps in.

Castiel is sunken in the bed, looking smaller than his usual angel self. Dean can't ever recall having seen him lying down before. His complexion is ashen, dark marks underneath his eyes. One of those ridiculous hospital gowns is hanging limply from him, hiding his chest wounds, but if his neck is any indication they don't look much better. The line of neat stitches across his throat is red and enflamed, looking painful and hot. His shoulder is bundled in white bandages, just peeking out from the gown. His hands are resting on his lap over top of the blankets, fingers slightly curled. He looks like a boxer with the bandages wrapped around his palms.

Dean doesn't like this one bit, the hospital, the starchiness, the death, seeing _Castiel _in the hospital looking all too much like a human. The minute Castiel is conscious and capable of moving they're smuggling him out of this death trap and hauling ass to Bobby's. They're only one state away and he'd feel a lot safer holed up there while Castiel gets better rather than some crap motel that won't have anywhere near the amount of protection they can get at Bobby's. Sam excuses himself to go take care of Castiel's paper work that Dean absolutely refused to do while he waited, only providing them with the first name that came to mind and that happened to be Jimmy. Dean can't bring himself to sit so he paces back and forth at the foot of the bed, drifting to Castiel's side occasionally to check his breathing, confirm what the machines are already telling him. He's alive, he's breathing, and he's fine. Well, as fine as a guy who barely escaped death mere hours ago at the hand of a demented angel can be. Dean is pacing when Sam pushes back the curtain and comes in.

"We're not staying long, are we? I don't know how long we can pretend not to have any medical papers for him." Sam says.  
"Not if I can help it, man. But I at least want him conscious, not dragging a body down the halls."

He glances to Castiel, hoping to see some sign of consciousness but is greeted with only a still body and closed eyes, slumped in the bed.  
-

Castiel comes to hearing Sam and Dean talking in hushed voices. He can't make out what they're saying but he doesn't really want to, only wants to go back to where it doesn't hurt. From the smell alone he can tell this is a hospital, the reek of Reapers and chemicals thick in the air. It feels like his skin and the subsequent layers underneath are on fire, burning lines in him with their intensity. He suddenly jolts when he remembers.

Zachariah.

He won't be far behind now, closing in. If those angels come here the results will be disastrous. They'll make this hospital their battleground. They'll kill him and every human here, capturing Dean and Sam. That won't happen and he won't let it. He'll lead them away, even if he doesn't make it very far at least it will be away from Sam and Dean. There's no way in Heaven or Hell he's letting those two fall into Michael and Lucifer's hands, not after all the sacrifices, all the hard work its taken to get them this far. The thought of moving makes the pain in all of his wounds flare, burning and searing at his skin that is far too sensitive.

Voices penetrate his consciousness, muddled, non-descript sounds that he can't make any sense of. He knows its Dean purely from the feeling of his soul so nearby but he can't bring himself to answer. Something hooks into his consciousness and drags him down, despite his protests and efforts he's dragged back to the place where it doesn't hurt and he doesn't feel so terrified.

Dean is talking in hushed tones when Castiel starts moaning, mumbling something under his breath.

"Cas?"

Both brothers are on either side of the bed in a heartbeat, leaning over the angel, straining to hear him.

"Must…leave…go…go away."

He moans, hands twitching. His arm suddenly jerks up, pressing against his chest as his face scrunches in pain, forehead creasing sharply.

"We're not going away, Cas." Sam says.

"No…" Cas mutters

The angel's eyes flash open for a moment, staring before snapping closed with a shuddering sigh.

"Hey, man, come on, wake up." Dean coaxes, tugging at Castiel's arm.

As he pulls Castiel relaxes, going limp as Dean peels his arm away from his chest. He waits for a reaction, but it becomes obvious he's unconscious again. He sighs angrily, frustrated as he lays Castiel's arm back down, hand lingering for a second longer than it has to on the angel's. He steps away, retuning to his pacing.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So sorry for such a late post, trying to keep to a weekly schedule, lets me ephasize,_ trying_ :)**_  
_

* * *

_He sighs angrily, frustrated as he lays Castiel's arm back down, hand lingering for a second longer than it has to on the angel's. He steps away, retuning to his pacing._

* * *

They stay that way for a long time, Sam taking up residence in the chair and Dean continue his mindless pacing until he gets too tired and has to join Sam in the other seat. He doesn't know how much time passes before Castiel stirs, hands twitching and his head flopping to the side. Dean is at his side in an instant.

"Hey, Cas, you in there?"  
The angel's eyelids flutter and he makes a small, unintelligible sound then stills. Dean waits for a moment, waiting for some further sign the angel is regaining consciousness but when he gets none he rubs his eyes, patting one hand against Castiel's wrist before joining Sam again at the end of the bed.

"You almost look as bad as him." Sam says.  
"Must be looking in the mirror." Dean replies, looking right at Sam.

A small smile quirks Sam's lips.

"I'm going to go find us some coffee before we really do collapse."  
"You do that man."

After Sam leaves Dean returns to his pacing when Castiel all but flies out of the bed. Before Dean can stop him he has his feet on the floor and is making a bid to stand.

"Cas!"  
He lurches to his feet only making it about two steps before he practically runs into Dean as his knees give way and the man is forced to catch him.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy, man, easy."  
Gripping Dean's shoulder, Castiel forces his feet underneath him, demanding they hold his weight. They're uncooperative, but he manages to stand, trying to push away from Dean but finding he's being pushed back instead.

"Sit down, you lunatic!"

Dean all but shoves him back onto the bed, as careful of his injures as he can be, what with the angel seemingly insistent on moving forward. It's only the stab of pain throughout Castiel's chest that stills him, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

"Dude, one minute you're comatose and the next you're damn near streaking in the halls."  
"I have to leave, Dean. Zachariah-"

"Hold up, you don't even have any proper clothing on. And don't even think about blinking out of here, you hear me?"  
Castiel looks down at himself to find he's only garbed in a flimsy fabric gown with polka-dots on it, which, for the most part, lacks a back entirely. Clothing is not especially important to an angel but he knows that this would go against social protocols and stand out far too much. On any other day he could simply make clothing out of thin air, but like this…it's too much energy, too much time.

He spots his clothes, the mess that they are, thrown over the back of a chair next to the bed. He notes that the shirt and jacket are not among the items there. Dean notices his attention wander to the clothing and his eyes follow.

"Yah, they had to cut the jacket off you because it was basically glued into your wounds but they saved your stalker coat.

Dean picks up the coat and gives it to Castiel who carefully takes it with both hands.

"The back is cut up but you can probably fix that once you're better."  
A horizontal tear has neatly cut across the lower back, edges saturated with deep red blood, already dried and stiff.

"Are you well enough to stand? If you want to get moving we're more than happy to get going." Dean says.

In all honesty, Castiel would like nothing better than to return to his blanket of darkness and 'sleep it off' as Dean would have put it. But that is not even an option. He also can't go with the Winchesters, he might as well hand them over to Zachariah gift wrapped. He also knows they won't simply leave him. He'll have to deceive them in order to save them. They won't like it, but he hardly has any other choice.

"No, I…I need to rest a little longer…"  
A small, sad frown captures Dean's face, but Castiel pretends he doesn't see it. He needs to wait Dean out, needs him to leave before he can make his escape. He hauls his legs back into the bed and lays back, nervously and restlessly. Dean doesn't seem to notice as he continues to pace. While Castiel waits to execute his plan he carefully feels out his grace, exploring the damage to his body. Minimal healing has already set in but not enough to do much good yet. His hands still have raw holes punched through them, the bandages the only thing separating them.

He runs his grace along all the stitches adorning his body but finds they're sound, tight and sore, but good enough. Even his lungs are feeling whole again, at least not on the verge of collapse. It's the hole in his shoulder that's causing him some problems. The surgeons obviously did what they could in such a hectic time but it's still a vast, gaping wound, pulsing with each heart beat.

Dean is finally forced to leave Castiel's side in search of Sam and coffee. He promises to return soon, but the angel really hopes he's not too quick. He'll need at least five minutes to pull this off and he's known Dean to returns much quicker than that from more complicated errands. The second he hears Dean's footsteps fade away he's heaving himself out of the bed, throwing his lead weight legs over the side and carefully reacclimatizing them to actually holding weight. He tears off the papery hospital gown and throws it on the bed as he reaches for his clothes. To say dressing is a struggle is an understatement. He can hardly move his right arm, the drugs in his system only further hampering his efforts. Every minute movement of any muscle seems to cause him pain. Some how he manages though, getting his pants on, hastily throwing his trench coat over top. He can't be bothered, nor does he have the time to battle the shirt or the belt. He carefully spreads his wings, testing them gingerly before taking a test flight.

He doesn't intend to make it very far and fortunately he didn't have high hopes because first he finds himself outside the hospital. He tries again, this time making it half a mile down the highway. He realizes that that is the end of his flying, but that's okay, he wasn't expecting much anyway. And at this distance, when the angels do come, they won't hurt anybody at that hospital, but most importantly, they won't hurt Sam and Dean. With one final glance backwards he begins his trudge down the highway to nowhere, simply waiting for the storm he knows is coming.

* * *

Dean stares at the hospital bed, uncomprehending for a second on how it could possibly be empty.

"Son. Of. A BITCH!" He growls, loudly.

The next half hour is spent in a frantic hunt of the hospital before they decide he can't be anywhere inside. They head out to Impala, quickly blowing by nurses and side stepping patients. Dean is about three words away from a complete melt down so Sam keeps his mouth shut, following hurriedly to the Impala. On a hunch Sam heads to the trunk, fishing out the old CB radio and turns it on. John had bought the thing and hardly used it, but that didn't make it a young machine.

"Come on, Sam. We have to go!" Dean hollers from the driver's seat.

"One second."  
He can almost hear the mental huff Dean gives him. Or maybe it's an actual huff

Surprisingly, the radio works, static crackling before voices start pouting out of it, garbled, but at least comprehensible. He's heading towers his seat when he hears what he wants to hear.

"There's a drunken guy in a trench coat on the side of the 79 near Pennington, try not to hit him, he's weaving his sorry ass all over the fricken' road."

"Dean, did you hear that?" Sam says, all but leaping into the car. "He's down the highway, near Pennington."

"Well, he didn't get very far." Dean grumbles.

They roar out of that parking lot, hitting the road like the devil himself is chasing them.

* * *

Castiel's been waling for half an hour now. Walking is the polite term to use. If he was being entirely honest, he'd say he's been stumbling for the past hour.

The cold wind and even colder night bothers him more than is should, more so now that he only has his trench coat on. He can't spare any Grace at the moment on something as trivial as numbing his vessel's nerves, all his focus is still on his more pressing wounds. At one point his foot catches on a large stone, pitching him into the gravel face first. The jarring impact sends his bones shuddering and sets his wounds on fire. He tries to get up right away, but his arm gives away and he's down again, face in the gravel. He hates himself for it, but he has to catch his breath before attempting to stand. The burn of his wounds subsides, letting him crawl to his hands and knees, favouring his right side before shakily ascending to his feet. He gains his bearings before setting out again, at an even slower pace than the previous one. He knows the Angels and Zachariah will be on him far too soon. He has to cover more ground. A large logging truck trundles along, blowing past Castiel in a gust of wind that almost knocks him over. He glares at the truck's retreating form but really, he's mad that something so pathetic could do that. And then he's upset over the fact that he could be mad at all. Taking a deep breath that comes out as more a sigh he steadies himself before trudging on.

Dean is fuming, coming up with thousands of things to say to the stupid angel he's going to find but one keeps jumping to the forefront of his mind more than others 'Cas, how can you be such an idiot!'

Dean thought it nicely summed up his thoughts and the angel's actions, followed by some more colourful words that will come out in the heat of the moment, he's sure it will make him feel better. Sam remains quiet, eyes scanning the highway. It hardly forty minutes before a streak of brown is illuminated in the dark.

"Dean, there." He says, pointing.

Like a hawk's, Dean's eyes latch onto the stumbling form, slowing down as they approach. The closer they get the more apparent it becomes that it is indeed Castiel. The angel only spares them a glance before looking forward again and continuing on his pathetic path. Dean slows to a mere crawl and then a stop a few meters in front of Castiel. When he reaches them he stops looking down into the car at Sam and Dean. The stare, despite how weary and worn he looks, gives Sam the feeling that heaven's wrath is being directed though those blue eyes.

"Cas, what are you doing?" Dean growls from the other side.  
"Walking."  
"Where?"

"Away from that hospital. You should go, Dean. Zachariah and the others will-"

"Screw it, Cas! I'm not leaving you to those dicks so get in the car."  
Castiel doesn't stop so Dean slams on the car horn, making Castiel jump, bumping into Sam's door and then clutching at the car roof as he grimaces, hand gravitating to his chest. Dean can see through his open coat the neat lines of stitches, red and enflamed skin surrounding them and even the patch of bandaging on his shoulder is stained rain. He manages to swallow his guilt at hurting Castiel more in his already abused state. His eyes meet the angel's and both look resolute and unyielding. Sam feels caught in the middle of one of their more intense staring contests.

"Dean-"  
"Cas. In the car."  
Castiel opens his mouth to say something when he's suddenly ripped back with a short cry.

"Cas?!" Sam and Dean shout in unison, leaning towards the window.

"Hello, boys." Another voice says.

Both their heads snap back to Dean's window where Zachariah is leaning smugly against the doorframe.

"Son of a-!"  
Dean fumbles for a weapon, anything, when Zachariah taps his fingers against his forehead and he's suddenly outside the Impala on the shoulder of the road. Sam is vaulting out of the car, while two other angels hold Castiel pinned to the car, one holding his blade threateningly and the other with his arm across Castiel's throat, his sword poised over his stomach, ready to pierce. A third stands off to the side, watching intently.

"Cas?"  
The angel's eyes dart in his direction and Dean gets the distinct feeling he's trying to tell him something, but he can't figure out exactly what. Sam hovers just a few feet away from Dean, taking in the scene, trying to think of a plan.

"So, now that everyone is here why don't we get started?" Zachariah says, clapping his hands together.

He turns to Dean, eyes sharp and only a foot away from him

"Since you don't care about yourself and what I would do to you, I'm going to use something that you do care about and that I'm willing to break." His eyes skip to Sam briefly before returning to Dean.

"Don't do it, Dean! Don't-"

Castiel's shout is cut short as a blade is pressed to his throat and his head is wrenched back.

"Easy. Let's at least let the boys know what's going on." Zachariah chides and the angels stop but they still hold Castiel in that threatening position.

The head angel turns to Dean, who's looking stricken and horrified and Sam isn't that much better off. Zachariah, smug grin still firmly in place, steps towards Dean.

"If you don't say yes to Michael I'm going to break this angel and then I'm going to kill him. While you watch. And hey, I may even have you do it." He says, stabbing a finger at Castiel.

"Dean, don't-" Castiel warns again but he gets the point of a sword under his chin as a result. Dean doesn't think his head can go back much further when the blade draws a sluggish trickle of blood down his neck from the single point. Any more pressure and it could easily punch through the weak underbelly of his jaw, killing him. The other angel draws his blade over the first few stitches across Castiel's neck. Castiel tries to push them away, struggling, but he's no match for the two that have him pinned so vulnerably, especially in the state he's in. Dean can see the corner of the wound open anew, blood beginning to spill down his neck.

"Stop! Just stop!" Dean shouts, trying to move forward, but Zachariah deftly moves his hand and he can move no more.

"Then it's settled. If I call Michael you'll surrender yourself, body and soul, to him?"  
"Dean, no, _please_." Castiel pleads and is promptly choked at the hard press of a sword.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, locked with Dean's. Dean feels like he's caught between two raging monsters. If he says yes, he'll save Castiel (maybe) but betray him none the less. If he lets him die its likely he'll be forced to say yes anyway and he'll have the added agony of watching his friend gasp his last breaths and be helpless to do anything.

'What's it going to be, Dean? My patience is far from infinite."  
Dean hesitates just a second too long for Zachariah's liking. He motions with his hand and suddenly the sword isn't on Castiel's neck but leaning against his eyebrow, ready to slash downwards. Even Castiel's eyes widen, terrified.

"Okay, okay!" Dean says, trying to buy time, still unsure of what he's going to do.

All eyes snap to him.

"Dean!?" Sam says.

"Shut up, Sam."

"Now, your not going to do something stupid, are you Dean?" Zachariah presses. "Because if you try and fool me, something very bad will happen to him angel."

Zachariah says, fingers flicking outward.

"No, wait!" Dean shouts.

But it's too late. The second angel plunges his sword into Castiel's thigh, all the way up to the hilt. He screams, head jerking, body spasaming as the blade against his throat slicing a thin, new line above the old one as he jumps forward reflexively. His knees give out on him, the only thing appearing to keep him on his feet are the other two angels, body pinned against the Impala.

"Stop!" Dean shouts again, making a run for them.

He makes it half way when the angel twists the sword again, wrenching another cry from Castiel, agonized and sharp as he throws his head back against the Impala, chest heaving. Instead of being stopped short Dean manages to run right to them, wedging his way in between the butchering angels and Castiel. As he does so the angel yanks the sword out and Castiel flails, left hand clenching in Dean's coat as he pulls him close. Dean is so close he can feel the ragged beat of Castiel's heart through his coat, the heat radiating off his skin and the shallow gasps of air puffing out against his cheek. He knows he's only gotten this close because Zachariah wants him there and now he knows why. With Castiel clinging to him, so hurt and weak it becomes a thousand times worse then watching from afar. Suddenly the other angel pull back and Castiel begins to slide down. Dean's arms shoot out and he tries to hold the angel up, but the painful groan he gets in response prompts him to sink to his knees, still holding Castiel. His whole body is trembling, gasping for air through the pain, hand still clutching at Dean.

"Don't…don't you dare…" Castiel gasps, fingers tightening in the front of coat.

His eyes, bright from pain, are drilling into him and Dean does his best not to cave under them. He can almost feel Castiel trying to will him, will him to let him lie here and die, anything but saying yes to Michael.

Anything.

But resolve of his own creeps into Dean's eyes, hardening angrily as he takes in the full enormity of what's happening. He's holding Castiel, _Castiel the angel_, bleeding and shaking and in pain like no angel should ever have to be. This is an angel, his friend, perhaps his best friend. There's no friggen' way in hell he's going to let him die. He takes Castiel's hand, the one gripped in his coat, loosens it and squeezes it tight, eyes locked with the angel's. But he doesn't see what he expects to see there. The fear, the panic is gone, replaced with resolve not dissimilar to Dean's. Castiel squeezes his hand back, shakily, but he suddenly pulls it into his coat, wrapping Dean's fingers around the handle of a blade there. Dean doesn't even hesitate. He yanks the blade out, wheeling around and stabbing at the nearest angel.

The tip of the sword pierces the angel's chest. He looks shocked for a moment before his eyes light up and he screams, white light pouring everywhere before snapping off as the empty body collapses into the dirt. That's as far as he gets before the other angel grabs him and _throws_ him into the ditch. He drops the sword somewhere between leaving the ground and landing on his back so hard he feels like bones shatter. He heaves for breath, scrambling to his feet to come face to face with Zachariah, looking very, very pissed.

* * *

Castiel scrambles for his discarded sword, hands locking around it just in time to parry Leochoir's blow that aimed to chop off his head. He shoves himself up onto his knees, shoving Leochoir away with one arm, the other lashing out with his sword. Josiah rises up behind him. He pivots on his good leg, stabbing sharply. He feels the blade pierce Josiah's chest in a burst of light. He doesn't bother to watch his death before he leaps forward, making a run for Sam. A sudden gut wrenching pain flares up his back, blinding him with its intensity. He can hear himself scream, stumbling and falling to his knees but getting back up right away. He can't afford any weakness now, not with the Winchester's lives at stake. He can't see for a few more seconds but he continues forward, stumbling until he collides with the person he's looking for. His hand fists in the front of Sam's shirt as he half turns, vision returning as he stabs at Leochoir charging from behind. His sword grazes his lip, punching through his cheek with ease, blood spewing out of his mouth. He reels back, clutching at his face with a grunt. Castiel's window of opportunity is small so he doesn't waste one second. Hand still on Sam he locates Dean, yanking him along with him despite the searing pain in his back which has spread to his wing. His leg throbs but he shoves that away too, forcing onward. He doesn't even know how he manages that, soundly ignoring the implications of what that could mean for him. He focuses on one thing and one thing only: Escape.

Zachariah is beating Dean to Kingdom come, barely breaking a sweat as he delivers a devastating blow to his face. Dean coughs and he promptly drops him, straightening up. He scowls at his suit, pulling it straight and swiping at the dirt and speckles of blood. Dean lies on his back, groaning as he struggles onto his side, spitting blood feebly.

"You mud-moneys think you're invincible. You're not." He growls aiming a kick that catches Dean in the chest, flipping him completely onto his stomach. Zachariah chuckles. He isn't even breaking bones yet he has the 'Righteous Man' a quivering heap on the ground. A scream registers faintly in the back of his mind but he pays it no mind, so focused on the task of enjoying himself and this moment.

"If you weren't the vessel, I wouldn't hesitate to peel the skin from your flesh and strip that pathetic body of yours down, one layer of flesh and muscle at a time till all I have is bones. Castiel won't be so lucky."

* * *

As Castiel hauls Sam down into the ditch Zachariah is leaning over Dean, hand fisted in his coat. Castiel stabs at him, silver blazing in the pale moon. Zachariah turns at the last moment, lurching away, sword cutting his coat. Castiel can't stop his momentum, Sam's weight behind him, propelling him forward as he charges in, knees all but giving out as he reaches Dean and grabs his wrist.

"You!" Zachariah growls, trying to lunge in and grab them but he's too late. Darkness crowds in on Castiel and the last thing he's aware of is crashing into something hard and then collapsing.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Seriously, sorry to all you watchers, didn't mean to be a more than a _whole week_ late! Just as an FYI the next update might be a little late as its hardly written at all and life is going so fast lately, but I will get it done. So enjoy the update!

-Z

* * *

"_You!" Zachariah growls, trying to lunge in and grab them but he's too late. Darkness crowds in on Castiel and the last thing he's aware of is crashing into something hard and then collapsing._

* * *

One minute Dean is lying in a moist ditch, water soaking in his back and having the crap kicked out of him by an angel and the next he's half sprawled over Bobby's desk. For Dean, the landing is disorienting and jarring. For Bobby, it's near heart attack inducing. One moment he's sitting, alone, in his study, quiet as can be and the next the room has erupted into chaos with people flailing all over the place, one face down on his desk. He vaguely registers a tan blur running face first into the wall before hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes and Sam crashing face first onto the kitchen floor. To say he _grabbed_ his gun is an understatement. He leapt for the weapon, slamming his back into the book case as he brings it to bear and ready to fire with little to no provocation.

Dean, disoriented, lifts his head off the table, glaring blearily up into the barrel of Bobby's rifle for a second before he springs back as fast as he can, which isn't very fast. His body complains at the sudden movement, ribs aching and pretty much every other muscle and bone in his body as well. He opens his mouth to speak, but there's no time for words when Sam shouts.

"Dean!"

Both hunters turn, eyes settling on Sam crouched on the floor.  
"Cas!" Dean shouts.

He rushes to them, ignoring his protesting muscles, falling to his knees. Castiel is lying on his stomach, convulsing and jerking violently on the floor. Sam is trying to hold him still, but is having little luck.

"Dean, the knife!" Sam says, horrified.

A silver angel sword is rammed up to the hilt mid back, angled upward.

"Hold him still." Dean shouts.

Bobby joins them, adding his weight to Castiel's legs. Leaning across his lower back, Sam reaches over places his forearm across the back of Castiel's neck effectively pinning his head down. Even with the three of them, Castiel is still jerking a lot, involuntarily fighting them. Dean braces one hand above the knife in his back and is reaching for the handle when Castiel's hand shoots out, fingers curling into his knee like claws.

"Please…careful." He gasps. "Don't…press up."  
His pain widened eyes finds Dean's, pleading with him. Dean realizes that this could be even more serious than it looks, but there's no time to find out as Castiel's eyes roll back in his head, muscles spasaming like he's having a seizure, blood dripping from his mouth. Dean bites down on his resolve, carefully taking the knife handle. He mentally judges the angle before he presses down a fraction and pulls it straight out. Castiel screams, kicking Bobby and launching Sam off him with one great jolt. Both men hit the floor with a thud and a grunt as Castiel lurches to his feet. Dean is thrown back against the couch, a much softer blow.

"Whoa, whoa, Cas!" Dean shouts, scrambling to his feet as well.  
Dean drops the sword and is on his feet. Castiel makes it as far as Bobby's desk, leaning heavily against it before falling to his knees, still gripping the edge.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Dean says, grabbing Castiel's shoulder and threading a hand around his back, careful of his wound as he hauls him to his feet.

"Wards…" He gasps." We need…wards."

"Okay, man, calm down. Bobby, put the angel wards up, pronto. Sam, the kit, lots of towels too. And ice." He adds, noticing the heat pouring off of Castiel.

Castiel is beginning to tremble, a shaking hand gripping Dean's shoulder for support.

"Let's lay you down man. Come on."  
Even with Dean taking most of his weight he's still got a vicious limp, falling an inch with each laboured step. Fortunately, is not far to the couch in the other room. Dean eases them both down as carefully as he can, but nothing is gentle enough for the severely battered angel. He groans, head falling back and eyes drifting shut as they sit down.

"Hey, stay awake."  
Dean doesn't want to jostle the angel for fear of hurting him so he squeezes his arm a little harder than normal, bracing his other arm across Castiel's shoulder blades and propping his head up with that arm. Bobby reappears from the kitchen holding a thin needle and glass vial full of liquid.

"Will this even work on him?"

"The morphine at the hospital seemed to work on him." Dean replies.  
"Well, let's give it a shot anyway." Bobby says.

He takes Castiel's arm, sliding the needle into the crook of his elbow carefully. Castiel manages to lift his head to see what's happening and frowns, remembering his time at the hospital and how they were constantly sticking him with needles. What is it with humans, he wonders. He doesn't have much room for any more coherent thought as Dean starts fighting his jacket off his shoulders as Bobby takes most of his weight on his other side. It's easy enough to get his left arm out, but his right arm is stiff and feels like it's made of granite, the red and scarred hole in his shoulder unmovable and painful with every little effort he makes to move it. It's also the side that Leochoir stabbed underneath his wing, making it worse than tender when his shoulder blades move. In the end it takes both Bobby and Dean to get the coat off Castiel's unyielding arm. Fortunately, that's all he was wearing, or the whole ordeal would have been more painful than it already was.

With the coat off the extent of the injury is revealed to Dean who pauses, a bad sign for a Hunter with so much experience in gruesome injury. The fact the wound is filtering a white-blue light only adds to the disturbing factor.

"We need that first aid kit." He says, but he's not even sure if this is totally fixable.

On cue, Sam reappears with an armful of supplies and a red and white plastic kit, dumping them all on the kitchen table and doing a quick sorting before bringing all the essentials over to the coffee table. Bobby moves and Sam takes his place, Castiel now leaning against him as Dean takes a closer look at the wound.

The hole in his back gapes open two inches wide and three long, blood oozing down his back accompanied by the light. Dean can see the white glint of Castiel's spine, barely covered by flesh. He knows that this wound could very well have killed Castiel, a fraction deeper and it would have gotten his lungs or to the left it could have damaged his spine. And he's not entirely sure his wing is fine, but for now he has to close it up. It's obvious there's move damage hidden beneath the skin where the blade traveled, manifesting in the form of dark bruising starting to show across his shoulder blades.

"Definitely going to need stitches." He mutters to himself, a hand hovering just above the wound. "Should we lie him down?" Dean wonders, looking to Sam.

Sam glances at Castiel's mangled front, line after line of stitches not looking so hot. It'd be preferable if they could keep him upright, but that's not looking like much of an option right now, seeing as Sam appears to be the only thing keeping him upright.

"We'll have to lie him down." He agrees.

Bobby returns carrying a bowl of water with ice cubes floating in it. He puts it down on the table accompanied by a stack of cloths. He also hands Dean some soft towels and he spreads them out on the couch before they lie Castiel down. He stiffens at first, but with his head on the pillow he soon relaxes. Well, un-stiffens, the lines around his eyes are tight and minute tremors run through him, but it's the best they can ask for. Sam manages to pad some gauze under his leg where he was stabbed, at least till they can get around to it. Dean disinfects the wound before threading the needle. He's exceedingly careful as he pulls the wound closed, skin puckering around the edges a nasty purple as he does so. Castiel is pretty much out of it until he gets to the widest part of the wound, pulling tighter to get the edges to meet. Castiel tenses, shoulder blades prominent against his back as he winces.

"Sorry about that man." Dean mutters, slowing down to give Castiel time to recover.

When he has it halfway closed it starts oozing blood and won't stop.

"Damn it." Dean mutters, taking a towel and pressing firmly, but as gently as he can possibly. It's not nearly gentle enough because Castiel jerks, head snapping up.

"Easy." Sam says, easing his head back down.

Castiel cringes and twitches underneath their hands until they can get the blood to stop, Dean hastily finishing the stitching before it can start again. The black bruising has established itself above the wound, too dark and far too tender to do anything about it. Very carefully, Dean presses down on the edge of the discolouration, trying to feel out the extend of the damage, but Castiel almost leaps off the couch at the simple touch, eyes rolling back into his head as he makes a strangled sound. Dean yanks his hand away like it's on a bungee cord.

"Oh man, I'm sorry, sorry Cas."

Castiel doesn't answer so much as try to pull himself together, glancing at Dean in acknowledgment with heavy blue eyes.

Dean finishes by taping a patch of gauze over the stitches and the bruising, giving it some protection. They still have the leg to do, but Castiel seems to have succumbed to the pain, unconscious, yet he's shaking like a leaf, lines straining at his closed eyes and lips pressed into a tight white line.

Bobby, who'd disappeared at some point, reappears with another needle full of morphine. Neither Winchester questions him as he takes Castiel's arm and gives him a second shot.

"I don't want to push our luck here, this is three time the recommended dose, so, if this doesn't work, nothing will."  
Fortunately, it works, the full on shaking dying down after a few minutes to a tremble. They turn their attention to his leg now, managing to get the angel turned over with only one groan, careful to not jar him any more than necessary.

"Okay, okay." Dean mutters turning his attention to the leg wound, trying to focus.

He finds he can't, Castiel's shaking and soft moaning sounds distract him.

"Dean, let me." Sam prompts, elbowing Dean out of the way.

Dean lets Sam take his place, instead wetting a cloth in the ice water and placing over Castiel's forehead.

Sam peels back the blood soaked gauze that's glued itself down to Castiel's leg. The thigh of his pants are completely soaked, wet and dark with blood. Sam doesn't have much hope they can get them off him in this state so he starts tearing the hole made by the blade into a slit, ripping till he can see properly and rolling it back so he can work. Dean is hovering over his shoulder, a wet cloth already there for him. He takes it, being as gentle as he can to remove the dried blood but Castiel faintly groans, eyes fluttering.

"Cas?"

Dean steps in, leaning over the angel, Sam continues on, finally clearing the wound. It's a nasty, blood crusted hole, red and enflamed around the edges, still trickling blood at a much reduced rate, which means it either missed the artery or Castiel managed to heal that.

"Finally caught a break." He mutters. "But I don't think we can stitch this, it's too deep. Hand me the whiskey then I'll wrap."  
"Okay, okay yeah." Dean agrees.

He hands Sam the flask who quickly splashes the alcohol over the raw wound. Castiel only jerks a bit, eyes fluttering as he fights the drugs, trying to open his eyes. His face is strained, mouth set in a rigid line as his eyes dark back and forth beneath his eye lids.

"Just rest, man. Stop fighting it." He says, laying a light hand on his uninjured shoulder.

Castiel's breathing picks up and he finally manages to open his eyes, wincing sharply and turning away as Sam wraps the bandages. He jerks his leg, trying to pull away as his good arm seeks something to give him leverage to escape.

"Hey, it's just us. You're at Bobby's. Hey, Breathe."  
Dean manages to draw Castiel's attention, half moon eyes hazy as they follow him. He stops his struggles, his hand gravitating to his chest, eyes flickering to Sam, the other hand brushing the edge of the bandages around his thigh as he gets his bearings.

"Sam. Dean."

He looks between both of them, searching for words and coming up dry. Everything aches, he just wants to close his eyes, let his throbbing wing rest for awhile and soothe every pain with unconsciousness, but he has to know if they're alright. The last thing he remembers is Zachariah and that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He shifts his shoulder and is rewarded by a sharp stab of pain that pierces his lungs, forcing the air from them.

"Whoa, calm down man. It's all good here. Don't get yourself worked up." Dean says, patting his shoulder again.

Castiel closes his eyes, subduing the pain by breathing and staying still

"You…alright?" He manages, opening his eyes to look to Dean.

"Yeah, just a little angel beating is all. Dicks." He adds.

Castiel can sense the bruises, feel where Zachariah hit Dean. No matter what Dean may say about his injuries, Castiel knows they are there. But there's nothing he can do for him now, so he makes no comment.

"Sam?"  
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine too." He's happy to be included by Castiel.

"Man, stop worrying about us, you're the one who looks liked cleaved meat. How's your…uh, wing?" Dean asks nervously, taking a drink.

"It…"

Castiel pauses, searching out through his wing with his grace, mildly testing it. He breathes a sigh of relief to find its still there, still connected to the vessel and his true form, the damage done is not irreversible, given time. But it's not good, the base, where it connects to the vessel, is the most damaged, connections severed which causes a throbbing beat every time he runs his grace over the frayed nerves. He opens his eyes to find Dean and Sam are still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

"…it's painful." He says with a resolute sigh.

"Is there anything we can do about that?"

"Not…really." Castiel mumbles, drifting away with the distraction of the pain and the cocktail of drugs in his system from Bobby and the hospital. The Winchester's voices fading into the background as he turns to the window, looking up at the sky. It's easy to imagine Heaven up there, his home, but it's so hard to picture himself back there, among the other angels. Honestly, he can't ever imagine walking among them again, though he hopes for it. It feels like a door has been closed, one that can never be opened again and all he can do is go forward. Somewhere inside him, he knows this is what being human feels like.

"Hey, here, Cas."  
Castiel looks back to Dean who has a flash in his hand. Despite the indignity of needing someone else to help him drink he opens his mouth and Dean presses the cool metal to his lips and gives him a drink. The burn of whiskey distracts from some of the pain.  
"Thank you." He mutters.

"Anytime, Cas." Dean replies.

Castiel lets his addled mind wander, listening to the rise and fall of Sam and Dean's voices as they talk. Before long even that fades as a cool and comforting darkness takes him into its embrace without difficulty.

* * *

"Shut up, ya Idjits!" Bobby whispers harshly, returning to the room and tapping both brothers on the shoulder and pointing. They immediately quiet their small argument as they look to where Bobby's pointing.

"Don't want to wake sleeping beauty over there."  
All eyes are on Castiel as he lies there, either asleep or doing a damn good impression of it. Without another word the three men head off to the study and quietly do some research. Sam reads the paper, searches the internet, but finds no immediate or pressing case so he ends up joining Dean in a very quiet cleaning of the guns. Before any of them know it its dark outside and Sam is yawning, staring blearily at the computer screen, prompting Bobby to haul out the blankets and floor beds. Dean thinks he's being sneaky when he checks up on Castiel, but neither Bobby nor Sam miss the look on his face. At some point Bobby spirits away to his own room, leaving Sam, Dean and Castiel on their own, but not without telling them, not so subtly, to holler if need be.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Okay, I have an _extremely_ good reason for not posting in...3 weeks?! Wow, best part of living in the great white north, sudden, spontaneous internet loss that lasts for weeks until you can book a repair man, especially over the holidays. So, yeah, sorry for the mega delay, have not abandoned this fic and have no plans to. Enjoy :)**

* * *

_Dean thinks he's being sneaky when he checks up on Castiel, but neither Bobby nor Sam miss the look on his face. At some point Bobby spirits away to his own room, leaving Sam, Dean and Castiel on their own, but not without telling them, not so subtly, to holler if need be._

* * *

The night is dark save for the white glow of the bright half moon filtering in through the window. Sam sits up, looking around, hardly a sound to be heard.

For a second he thinks he must have imagined there was any problem, but he hears a small groan followed by the rustling of blankets. Sam peers from his bed on the floor into the other room to see Castiel, twisting in the blankets as he rolls onto his side.

"Cas?" Sam calls.

There's no response from the angel as he writhes. Sam rubs his eyes and goes to him. He's lying on his side, rolling onto his stomach in fitful rest, hands gripping the sheets, face pinched in pain.

"Cas, wake up."  
Sam gives the angel a gentle shake, when that has no effect he taps his cheek with the back of his hand. Castiel drags his eyes open, looking no less in pain than when he was asleep.

"Sam…did I wake you?"  
"No, no, I guess the morphine wore off. How bad is it?"

"Very bad." The angel mutters, shifting again as he tries to find a comfortable position, but flinches instead. "It shouldn't be burning…"

"Hold on, I think we have something around here for that. Give me a second."  
Sam quietly shuffles around the downstairs in search of ointment, finding it in Bobby's pantry. He goes to the kitchen, retrieving the key and opening the locked box Bobby showed them, where he keeps his more serious painkillers. A delicate glass vial is sitting in a cradle of foam, full and ready to go. Loading the vial into a needle, he returns to Castiel. He's taking deep, shaky breaths, eyes locked on the floor. The look in his eyes when they meet Sam's tells him he's in agony. He fidgets, looking away from Sam in what can only be called embarrassment. He needs help, but he doesn't want to ask for it.

"Here,"  
Sam untwists the blankets and pulls them back, exposing Castiel's back to the blue moonlight streaming in the window. The bandage on his back is pink with sweat and blood as Sam peels it off. The wound is inflamed and puckered, oozing a sick dark red blood. Sam would be taking him to a hospital if it were anyone else. He's not sure if infection is a factor with angels, but, either way, it looks like it hurts.

"Man, Cas, this looks bad. This looks worse than earlier."

"It feels worse…I don't know…"

He closes his eyes and takes another half breath.

"Give me your arm."

Castiel opens his eyes, looking at Sam with a weary and questioning look. Sam holds up the needle.

"Something to make you feel better. Does it even work on you? I mean, it seemed to knock you out pretty good last time."

"I'm not sure. If it's the same as last time I'm sure it will. It's hard, not impossible to drug an angel." He says.

Castiel holds out his arm and Sam takes it, pushing the needle into the vein along the inside of his arm. Castiel watches with mute fascination as Sam retrieves the needle and tapes a patch of gauze over the small blossom of blood.

Sam returns his attention to the sword wound. He dips his fingers into the white balm and carefully applies it to the edges of the wound, rubbing gently. Castiel clenches his teeth, eyes narrowing to slits as he takes slow, calming breaths. The white layer of the ointment masks the ugly redness of the wound and Castiel seems to relax a little, face less strained and he's not twitching and fidgeting anymore. Sam doesn't know whether it's the ointment or the morphine (most likely the morphine), but he's glad it worked. He fits a clean bandage back over it to seal in the moisture, taping the edges down. The bruising that once covered Castiel's shoulder blades has begun to fade, but it's still a dark grey across his skin.

"Cas, does this hurt?" Sam asks, putting two fingers gently to the edge of the bruising.

"No, that's fine. Its just damage to the vessel, it heals faster than an injury inflicted by an angel blade."

"So, aside from that, you're still pretty beat up."  
Castiel gives him an almost exasperated look.

"Let me take a look at your leg. Is it hurting?"  
"Not as much as my back."  
"But that would still put it in the territory of majorly painful, its still hurting a lot, right?"  
Castiel nods, looking away.

"Its nothing to be ashamed of Cas. Let's get you turned over."  
With only a little help Sam has Castiel propped up against the arm of the couch, a pillow behind his back as he takes a look. The wound doesn't look anywhere near as bad as the back wound, in fact it's healing up quite nicely for something they didn't even stitch. Sam treats it with the ointment and rewraps it.

When he finishes he looks up to find Castiel's eyes are only at half mast as his head rests against the back of the couch. Sam leans over, pulling the bandage from his shoulder with practiced hands. For a stab wound that went straight through him, and an angel blade at that, it's showing a remarkable recovery rate, the same as his leg. It's completely sealed over by a large scab, the smaller exit wound on the back is the same. He decides it would be best to air it out at this point so he leaves it be. The lines of stitching that covered Castiel's front only a few hours ago have faded to silvery lines, punctuated with dark knots where the stitches have yet to be removed, the same as on Castiel's neck. That worries Sam for a moment, because it looks like the stitches have actually become apart of Castiel's skin, but he figures if they've already done that Castiel can handle it.

"Hey, Cas…are you going to be okay?"  
The angel opens his eyes and looks to Sam, almost inquisitively.  
"I…appreciate all you've done for me. You didn't have to."  
"Of course we did, Cas. You're our friend. I actually think…in a way, you've become family." Sam says.

Castiel frowns a bit, but not angry or angelic, it's confused and humanly vulnerable.

"Why?"  
It's a simple question. When did Sam start to care when Castiel looked worried? When did Bobby start telling him what motel they were camped out in, trusting him without a second thought? And when did Dean start looking so worried when Castiel wouldn't answer a phone call and so relieved when he finally picked up or winged in? Honestly, Sam isn't sure, but he is sure that Castiel is family, and family looks out for each other. It's the Winchester code.

"I don't know, Cas, but you are."  
Castiel looks overly solemn for the revelation, solemn and sad.

"Thank you, Sam. I'm glad to know I have at least one family."  
Sam nods and lays a gentle pat on his shoulder.

"You okay? Mind if I go back to sleep?"  
"Not at all, Sam."

"Call if you need us. And you'll stay here?"  
He nods.  
"I'll be here." Castiel says.  
Sam returns to his mat on the floor, sinking down with exhaustion at the days events.

Castiel doesn't go to sleep after. He watches Sam drift back off while Dean continues to snore softly. He sits like that for a while, feeling the ancient wood of the house breathe, the warding symbols pulsing against his Grace with every heart beat. After a while he slowly raises himself up into a sitting position, his good leg over the side of the bed, injured on bent slightly as he looks at it. The blood that soaked into his pants has dried, making it stiff and uncomfortable. The edges where Sam tore are dry and crusted, stark against the white bandage wrapped underneath. He runs his hand over the ripped fabric, the cloth re-knitting, the blood disappearing. When he removes his hand its like nothing ever happened.

At least to the pants.

Underneath the unmarred fabric is still an angel wound. Gingerly, he flexes the muscles, but finds they're tense and sore, unwilling to cooperate fully. The injury to his shoulder is slightly better, a dark mark that throbs occasionally and is nowhere near as painful as it was. He wonders how he managed to ignore such injuries in that last mad dash to escape, how he could possibly run with an angel sword in his back, dragging Sam on a near useless leg and then _flying_ with his wing half disconnected from his body.

He's lucky to be in the shape he's in.

Now that his clothes are repaired and he feels more comfortable he sits on the edge of the couch, watching the moon glow bright in the sky through the window. He's not sure how long he sits like that, the darkness doesn't ebb any so it can't be long, but he becomes aware of a pain building in his back.

No, not his back, in his wing, where the joint connects to the Grace stored in his vessel. He shifts around, squaring his shoulders then slumping them in an effort to find a comfortable position. Nothing he does helps at all so he opts to lie down, spreading himself out on his stomach, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes, not to sleep but to concentrate. He imagines heaven, remembers the more interesting events throughout history, he even goes so far as to hold conversations with his brothers and sisters, some he's actually had, trying to make them understand, trying to make them see.

It doesn't seem to help any, the pain only gets worse till it's a near constant throbbing pain, every heart beat of his vessel agitating his Grace against it and permanently distracting him. The earlier relief the ointment and morphine brought is completely forgotten under the onslaught of this new pain, something they morphine can't touch. At first he was hoping it was merely residual pain from such a severe wound. It's clear now something more is definitely wrong. He sits up, gingerly swinging his legs off of the couch and tottering to his feet. He's appalled at how weak he is, his limbs trembling with this small effort. He's an angel, he _can't _be this weak.

He hobbles away to the bathroom, leaning against the walls to ensure he doesn't fall over. He flips the switch and a bright light illuminates the small room, a faint hum coming to life with it. It seems even brighter than it is with the stark whiteness of the walls and counter. He's not sure what he's doing here, but it's always where the Winchesters' go when they're hurt.

Seeing his face in the mirror is actually quite the shock. He's pale, like someone bleached all of the colour from his vessel's already pale flesh. The harsh light of the bathroom makes his chest look like someone did impromptu exploratory surgery and a clumsy job of sewing him back up. Several red lines mar his neck, already in the advanced stages of healing so he can no longer feel the pain there, nor do they bother him, but he remembers it. Remembers the thought that his brothers where going to slice open his neck and leave him to choke and drown on his own blood in a ditch on some godless road.

He doesn't want to think about it any more as he turns his back to the mirror and peers over his shoulder to get a look at his back. White gauze covers the wound, gray bruising spreading from that point all the way up his back to the base of his neck, dark tendrils against his skin. The impact of his brothers slamming him into the Impala had fractured his spine and dislocated his shoulder, but they had quickly healed in his less damaged state, these bruises all that remain of that attack.

Despite all this, the wounds he can see with a mere glance are the least of his concerns. They're only markers on a vessel, the real damage is to what can't be seen with human eyes. The Winchesters have done an admirable job of aiding his slow healing vessel and he is appreciative, but this is something he has to do himself.

He steels himself before closing his eyes. He connects with his Grace, slowly feeling out all the connections and power ebbing and flowing through his vessel and his true form. Where he was stabbed there's slight blocks in the flow of his power, but they're healing. Those are nothing compared to the complete stop in his wing. He can feel the Grace and power pulsing through his left wing, still there and connected to his entire being, but nothing from his right, swirls of energy lingering where there should be a wing. Harnessing his Grace he pushes it through the channels of his body and into his wing.

His vision goes white and when it comes back he's face down on the floor, his back on fire and breathing hard. He crawls to his hands and knees, forced to stay there until he can catch a little air. He reaches up and grabs the edge of the counter and uses it to drag himself upwards.

Half doubled over and gripping the counter, he bows his head, trying to steady himself from the sudden and unexpected blackout. He gets his breath back, but the pain in his back, more specifically, his wing, doesn't go away, stronger than ever. He glances in the mirror, but quickly looks away, swiping away a trail of blood from his mouth. He notices a small pool of blood on the floor where he fell, the red liquid a stark contrast to the white and beige linoleum.

Once he has his bearings again and is prepared, he eases his Grace back towards his wing. He's careful this time, gently probing the wound. With each 'touch' a sharp stab of pain rocks him, his fingers curling into the counter top till they're white. Nothing he does can get his Grace to connect with his wing, no matter how much pain he endures or how hard he tries.

The realization of what has happened dawns on him and it makes him sick. He cups his mouth with one hand in time to start coughing. He tries to control himself, but his body won't cooperate, won't obey his commands. He ends up doubled over the sink, blood pouring from between his fingers until he has to use his hand to support himself. He retches up more dark, thick blood. When he finally stops his legs are so weak it feels like his iron grip on the sink is all that is keep him upright. He watches the blood drain slowly, leaving an ugly red slick on the white ceramic.

Memories, memories of angels with damaged wings, long ago, how they died slow agonizing deaths, unable to help themselves or anybody else to help them. How long would an injury like this take to kill him?

A week?

A month?

It's not bad enough to kill him outright or quickly, it only leaves him damaged and broken enough to suffer a prolonged death. He closes his eyes and prays.

* * *

Dean is having a rare dreamless sleep, quiet, comfortable and most importantly, peaceful. That's not to say he isn't half awake, Hunter's instinct. He vaguely hears Sam get up, hears voices, him and Castiel talking. He thinks about getting up to go check on him but before he can act upon the thought his body is already back to sleep.

It's the loud _thump_ that wakes him up. On instinct his eyes snap open and he's reaching for his gun. He's halfway to his feet and the weapon up and ready. His eyes slowly rove over the dark and now silent house. He stands there for a moment, assessing, going over all the possibilities. That's when he hears the wet coughing and then the retching, coming from the direction of the bathroom. His eyes flicker to Castiel's bed.

He's not there.

Dean lowers the gun, but keeps it ready, just in case, and goes to the bathroom. The horrible choking sounds have stopped, but the closer he gets the heavier the breathing he can hear.

Dean is a little shocked to see Castiel, head down as he clutches at the sink, blood on his hands and lips, eyes closed.

"Cas?" He says quietly.

The angel slowly opens his eyes and looks to Dean. Castiel knows he can't tell Dean what's truly wrong, he wouldn't take it well. He'd want to try and fix it. And he can't fix it. So Castiel can't tell him.

"I'm fine." He mutters, straightening up.

It's perhaps not the most believable thing he could have said.  
"You sure as Hell don't look fine." Dean growls, stalking toward Castiel.

He spots the blood on the floor and stops.

Castiel uses this momentary distraction to try and stand tall, only getting half way.  
"Dean, I'm fine. It's nothing…just…."

Castiel realizes with undying certainty that this is beyond anything he can possibly handle by himself or try to explain away.

"Cas, you're bleeding." A hint of urgency stains his voice  
Castiel suddenly becomes aware of the hot wetness pouring down his back. A second later Dean is by his side, grabbing his arm and all but holding him up.

"Cas?!"

Castiel looks at Dean, legs growing weaker with each second

"It's too much…" He mutters.

His eyes close and he begins to drop.

"Cas?!"  
Dean manages to loop his other arm around Castiel's waist, holding the angel to him. Blood wets his fingers and soaks into the sleeves of his shirt where they touch his back, warm and nauseating.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, dragging Castiel out of the cramped bathroom.

Sam hears the alarm in Dean's voice and is up, bolting to where Dean is, his brain firing a hundred different scenarios and reactions. When he sees Dean outside the bathroom holding up Castiel's limp body like it's a bomb and the blood running down his back Sam goes into emergency mode.

"What happened?"

"I don't know! I found him in there and he just passed out. He was puking blood."

Sam notices the blood, too much, running down his back, and his fingers and lips stained red too, a trickle running over his chin and down his neck.  
"Get him back to the couch, the stitches probably broke. That and whatever other damage we didn't see."

Sam reaches out to help, his hand lightly brushing over the angel's shoulder. Castiel lurches forward like he's been electrocuted.

* * *

Castiel is conscious enough to be able to feel the hands on him, on his back. Despite the fact he knows the physical hands touching him can't reach his wings he feels violated. Nobody should be touching his wings. He struggles, trying to push away but the hands grip him tighter, fingers digging into his sides and arms. He stiffens, his breathing picking up.

Who is this? What are they doing to him? Why won't they let him go? His wings…why? Summoning his strength he tries to wrench away from the arms encircled around him. His arm shoots out, nailing something solid with his elbow. It goes careening back. With half the weight holding him gone he rallies against the other, charging forward, driving a solid body into the wall. The impact jolts him, the arms around him loosening just enough for him to lurch away. He collides with another body, but he gives that one a shove and it's out of his way again.

The adrenaline powering his attack is suddenly gone and he feels his legs giving out. He crashes back against something hard, sending a shocking jolt through his spine. His lungs lock, unable to draw a breath for a moment as he doubles over onto his hands and knees. He can feel them coming for him again so he screams, but it comes out half strangled.

"Don't touch me!"

* * *

Castiel retaliates suddenly and violently. He flings his head back and shoves away from Dean. Sam is right behind him, arms locking around him.

"It's okay, calm down. Cas, it's us!"

A sharp elbow is driven into his stomach with all the force of a sledgehammer and he's propelled backwards, collapsing with a groan and curling inward.

"Cas!" Dean shouts.

He throws himself at Castiel, arms wrapping around him as he grips him tight. He struggles for a second before throwing all his weight forward, driving Dean back so fast and hard he can't stop before his back hits the wall with a dull thud and a grunt. Castiel pulls away from him, but Sam is back on his feet in time to get shoved down the hall and land on his ass.

Castiel suddenly falls into the wall, dropping to the ground like a sack of rocks.

"Cas, hey-" Dean is leaning down, about to grab his arm when Castiel rasps.

"Don't touch me!"

"Cas, what's wro-"

That's as far as Sam gets before Castiel passes out, collapsing in a crumpled heap against the wall.  
"Cas?" Dean shouts, kneeling by the angel.

He checks for a pulse and finds it. He's also breathing, but not very well.

"What is it?" Bobby shouts, reappearing in the living room doorway, gun in hand.

"It's Cas." Dean says.

Bobby looks from the boys to Castiel all bloody on the carpet and then back to their terrified faces.

"Is he dead?" Bobby says, hesitant and unsure.

"No, he's alive, he just-"

Sam snaps out of it, grabbing Dean as he leans down. Together they carefully hoist Castiel to his feet and drag him to the couch. Bobby follows, still a little unwilling to relinquish his weapon.  
Once they manage to get the angel back to the couch he's moaning and only half conscious. He's mumbling something under his breath that they can't make out.  
They lay him down on his stomach and Sam tries to address the wound. Dean disappears, Bobby following him.

The bleeding has stopped, leaving copious amounts of wet and dried blood down Castiel's back. Sam picks up a cloth, dunking it in the tepid water from earlier. The second he tries to wash some of the blood away Castiel's shoulders stiffen, his face scrunching and tightening at the soft touch. Even unconscious he looks stricken, his face burdened by so much intense emotion that Sam doesn't know how to approach him.

"Um…Cas, hey, can you wake up?"  
He gently shakes his arm, but quickly withdraws his hand when his stomach gives a painful protest at the thought that Castiel might freak out again and resorting to blows. Even this injured, he's still an angel.

Castiel groans but his eyes drag open, meeting Sam's slowly.

"Cas, is it okay if I fix this?"

"Sam?" He asks, like he's not sure why he would be seeing him.  
"Yeah, it's me, Cas."  
"Sam…I need you to…please don't…"

"I won't hurt you, Cas. Just tell me what's wrong."  
The angel looks away, embarrassed.

"Its…I…" He stops, trying find his voice. "My…wings. The damage was more than I thought. It's…"  
He sighs, practically deflating.

"I'm…weak…it's too…sensitive…I think it broke open."

"Yeah. It's okay. I'll take care of it."

Castiel tries not to react to Sam's touch, no matter that he's trying to help. It's irritating, but as the blood disappears he feels better. He's not sure when he starts to drift off, but before he knows it he's sailing off into the darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

Castiel is far from comfortable, but the darkness seems to mask that annoying little fact. He's in heaven, his favourite one, a lush green park, the occupant of this heaven flying a brightly coloured kite in the perfect wind. He's aware of other angels, he would call them friends, but angels don't have friends, only brothers and sisters, only duty. At least, normal angels do.

Suddenly everything goes dark, despite the sun still high in the sky, a shadow has been cast over the ground. The other angels are gone, evaporated into the air. Castiel turns around, but it feels like it's in slow motion

Zachariah looms above him, impossibly tall and too powerful. He feels the blows rain down on him, never ending until he's a broken and bleeding mess on the ground. Silver flashes and pain flares. He cries out incoherently, voice long gone as his wings drag down his back, crumpled, a horrific dead weight. Zachariah grabs him and shakes him, sending sharp molten pain through his shoulder and back. He shouts, Zachariah disappearing, replaced by Dean. He lurches up in a panic, pain scouring him. His body gives in, but he doesn't fall, Dean's hands holding him up, one on his shoulder and the other under his arm and looped around his back. Against his clammy skin he can feel the warm heat of Dean's arm, practically burning in its heat. A cold sweat cools on his skin, making him shiver.

"Cas, are you okay? Man, you're ice cold." Dean asks, eyes large and worried.

He's about to tell him that he's fine, but he twists away, blood spewing from his mouth onto the floor before he can stop it.

"Cas!?"  
He coughs again, another gout of blood working free from his throat. The action wracks his body so badly he hardly notices the hands holding him up as he grips the edge of the couch. When he manages to stop he stays there, breathing hard, tasting the tang of his own blood in his mouth. A hand suddenly comes to rest on his back, just to the left of his wound. He groans at the spark of pain followed by that same comforting warmth, the hand disappears only to grip his shoulders tighter, giving him a bit of a shake.

"Cas? Are you alright? What do we do?" Dean shouts, looking desperately at Sam and Bobby standing by his desk, a little stunned

"Nothing…there's nothing…" Castiel coughs, weakly cupping his hand to his mouth. Blood drips between his fingers.

"Cas?"

Dean's grip on his shoulders tightens again, straining his wounds.

"Dean." He says.  
Sam steps in, loosening Dean's grip and supporting Castiel enough so he doesn't hurt him or fall down. That doesn't stop Dean from lingering close, hands still lightly resting across his shoulders, unable to pull away in his concern.

"Cas," Sam catches his eyes. "What did you mean, 'there's nothing?'"  
"…nothing you can do…I'm…dying."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Just like to say thanks for all the faves, reviews and such.

On with the story!

* * *

"_Cas," Sam catches his eyes. "What did you mean, 'there's nothing?'"  
"…nothing you can do…I'm…dying."_

* * *

In retrospect, he shouldn't have used the word 'dying.' Dean nearly goes ballistic.

"What?" He says harshly.

Castiel tries to explain it, but no sooner does he reiterate that he's dying does Dean get furious. It shows in his face, through the set of his jaw and way he looks on the verge of cussing a blue streak through the house and shouting at everyone. Sam spots the telltale signs.

"Dean, calm down, just let him talk." Sam says from his seat next to Castiel's head.

Bobby watches with beady eyes from his desk, hands on a book and turning the pages, but only glancing at every third one. Dean begins pacing the room like a caged animal, letting his frustration and stress out by walking.

"What do you mean you're 'dying?'" Dean manages to articulate, angrily, arms crossed aggressively over his chest.  
"When Leochoir stabbed me… it severed…some of my connections to this vessel…I can't repair them."  
"You can't just leave Jimmy and, I don't know, heal in the atmosphere or something. We'll keep him pinned down this time while you're gone."

"That would be fine…but I can't."

"Why?"

Castiel struggles to think of an explanation or an analogy that humans would understand.

He can't think of any, not with the constant pain eating away at his concentration.

"With my wing injured I wouldn't be able to remove all of my true form from this vessel, and if I can't do that, then I can't leave at all."

"Come on, there has to be something, someone we could get to help us. There aren't any angels you could call?"

Castiel gets irritated at that, but lacks any energy to shout.

"Dean, even if there were, _there is nothing_ they could do about this. Nothing. Our wings are not easy to damage, but when they are…its impossible to fix them."

"Well, there has got to be _something_!" Dean shouts at him.

Castiel meets his stare with half hearted weariness, trying to inject some form of authority into his eyes. He's not sure if it works because at that Dean storms out of the room.

Sam watches his brother leave, snatching a beer off the counter on his way out the door. Castiel looks like he wants to roll his eyes or frown at Dean's poor behaviour, but he just sighs and lies there, closing his eyes. They sit in a semi-awkward silence for a few minutes. Bobby doesn't know what to say, so he opts to say nothing at all, pretending to read the book in front of him, but really he's keeping his eyes on Sam and Castiel.

"Cas," Sam says, "He's only acting like that because he's worried. We all are."  
"I would have…preferred to have told you later."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean this could take weeks." Cas says, voice strained. "It won't be a quick death. Don't tell Dean, but…"  
Castiel pulls his arm out from under the blankets, his angel blade held in a lax grip. He weakly holds it out to Sam who looks at it like its plague ridden.

"I will get worse, I don't know what exactly will happen to me. It could be delusions or seizures, blood loss, weakness, I don't know. But if it gets bad or I become a danger to you, I don't want to hurt any of you or anyone dying to protect me. If that happens…would you…?"  
He bobs his hand, tearing Sam's attention away form his face and back to the sword.

"Cas, I can't…"  
"I'm going to die, Sam…there's no question there. I've seen angels die this way. It's not pleasant. They suffered terribly…I…I don't want that. So please…"  
Sam holds his gaze for a moment, looking distraught, but he gingerly takes the sword.

"Okay Cas, but only if-"

"I appreciate it, Sam."

Sam looks at the blade then back to Castiel before setting it in his lap.

"You get some sleep, or some rest or whatever." Sam says, patting his arm.

Castiel gives a half nod against the pillow closing his eyes.

* * *

Its hours before the rumble of the Impala is heard in the drive way, roaring up and to a stop. Sam and Bobby look up from their books and laptop, watching the door for a brief second before returning their gazes. Castiel hasn't woken up since he fell asleep four hours ago. That in itself should worry Sam, and it does, but honestly, he's hoping this will help, that Castiel is wrong about this being a death sentence. Neither has said anything about what they're researching but they both know. It's about angels, anything they can find that could possibly help them. Despite their diligent efforts they're turning up squat.

Dean opens the door, quietly, coming into the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap. He sits down at the kitchen table, back to them. Sam wants to go to him, to talk, but now is not a good time, so silence reigns over Bobby and him. After half an hour or so Bobby goes over to the table with a stack of lore books, setting them down and returning to his desk. Sam watches Dean out of the corner of his eye as he picks up a book and starts to read, joining the productive effort to save Castiel's life.

Castiel shifts in his sleep, making small noises of pain. He moves from his stomach to his side, eventually settling on his back, quieting down. Sam watches him, thinking it must be uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem to be in any pain so he returns his attention to his computer screen. Silence returns, interrupted only by the turning of pages and a mouse clicking

It's around four o'clock in the morning when Sam gets up from his seat, stretching and heading to the kitchen for a drink and possibly something to eat. He sits down at the table and Dean looks at him, finally abandoning the fifteenth book he's read practically cover to cover.

"Well?"

He sounds hopeful, but it's a false hope, one that exists not because you actually believe, but because you can't let go.

"Sounds like Bobby might have a lead, but we're not sure." He says in offering.

It's a hollow and false prize and they both know it.

Dean takes a drink of water then glares at it. It's no where near strong enough for right now, but anymore and he'll be passed out. And he can't have that right now.

"What are we going do?" He asks quietly.

"What we can." Sam says.

Unfortunately, that seems to equate to nothing.

Dean looks away and so does Sam, gazing out the window into the darkness. That's when he spots a figure moving among the stacks of derelicts.

"Who's that?" Sam says, standing.

Dean looks out the window, spotting the dark figure across the yard.

"Hey, Bobby." Sam calls.

The older Hunter comes over, frowning at what's got the boys looking so intently out the window.

"What the heck?" Bobby mutters.

The figure walking through the yard comes closer, the blue of early morning barely illuminating them.

"You put the sigils around the fence, didn't you?" Dean asks.

"All around." Bobby confirms. "No way any angel or demon was getting in here."

"Then what do we have out there?" Sam says.

"Could be anything. Well, it can't be an angel or a demon. Unless this is some high up boss that can walk past all those sigils."

An image of Alistair flashes before Dean's eyes. What if they can't defend against this thing? What will happen to Castiel? Sam has the exact same thought only in his mind's eye he can seem himself killing Castiel to spare him whatever cruel fate would befall him in the hands of a demon.

The thought sends a jolt through Sam and Dean, spurring both to grab their guns, heading toward the door. It doesn't take long to arm themselves, following Dean out onto the porch. There's no sense in waiting for it if it's already gotten by the sigils.

The person, or the creature, is half way down the gravel road leading to the house, but its close enough for them to see that it's a woman.

"Freeze!" Dean shouts.

It doesn't, walking forward with as much callous determination as before.

Dean opens fire, Bobby joining him. The bullets tear into the woman, but that doesn't slow her down. It reminds him all too eerily of when he first met Castiel. This is no human, no woman.

Its closer now, hardly a stone's throw away from them. Sam grabs for the demon knife, tearing it from his belt throws it.

The knife buries all the way up to the hilt in its chest. For one brief second every thing stops. Dean waits for shit to hit the fan. The young woman tilts its head down a bit before reaching up and pulling the blade with a sick squelch from its chest and tossing it aside. It continues its advance up the steps without so much as blinking.

"Cas!" Dean shouts.

He's got to get the angel moving, get him out of here. He gets all the way to the study but before he can reach Castiel he's whisked back, hitting a bookshelf with his shoulder and sticking there, unable to move like a fly in a spider's web. Bobby and Sam shout from the kitchen as Dean tries to wrench himself free. The woman, the creature, doesn't even spare him a glance as it proceeds through the front door, across the kitchen tile and into the hardwood of the study, heading straight for Castiel's unconscious form.

"Stay away from him, you son of a bitch!"

The creature sits down on the edge of the couch. It winds one hand beneath Castiel's shoulders and the other clamps down over his forehead.

"Don't touch him!" Dean shouts, trying harder to tear himself away from the wall.

The creature turns away from Castiel and focuses its full attention on him for a second.

"Silence, Dean Winchester."

The voice reverberates throughout the house, through Dean, deeper than he was expecting. Its male, female, one and hundreds all at the same time, but somehow all contained neatly into the capacity of the human vocal cords. It's a horrifying voice, belonging to something so foreign and too powerful. Dean feels his throat work but no sound comes out. It's not like when angels or even demons have silenced him. This is completely different, like his vocal cords are merely gone, but he can still breathe, air flowing to his lungs uninhibited but no sound able to breach his throat. It turns back to Castiel. The angel squirms, weakly trying to escape the hands that touch him.

Dean wants to rage, to scream, to beat the thing till it's a bloody stain on the floor. A Golden light starts to fill the room, emanating from the creature's touch. Before he's completely blinded, Dean can see Castiel's back arch, head thrown back at a sharp angle, mouth slightly open, but there's no sound, his eyes glowing a faint blue through the slits of his eyelids.

When the light dies away Dean feels his limbs give out like they've turned to liquid and can no longer hold him. He falls to the floor on his knees. He tries to get to his feet, but he feels like someone has knocked out his bones. Castiel lies still as the creature takes back its arms and stands, looking dispassionately down at his quiet and motionless body.

"What did you do to him?" Dean rasps, climbing the wall till he's on his feet, swaying.

It reaches down, brushing a lock of his hair almost curiously before looking to Dean.

"He is healed." It responds, the many voices echoing in a damn scary way.

It steps away and Dean stumbles to Castiel, dropping to his knees, because he can't find the energy to stand. He checks for a pulse, finds it, steadier then the last time and he's breathing evenly too. The lines of half healed stitching are gone as well, the ugly mark that once adorned his shoulder vanished as if it had never been there.

Unable to stop himself, Dean grabs Castiel's arms and pulls him upright. Propped against him he rips off the bandage on his back to see that the devastating injury that was going to take Castiel's life is gone. He runs his hand over the smooth, unbroken skin, unbelieving. His eyes snap back to the creature still standing behind him, stone eyes staring stoically at him.

"What are you?" He growls.

Sam and Bobby appear, hovering in the door way, unsure of what to do. Bobby has his sawed-off gun and Sam is brandishing a tire iron, like that will do anything to this creature.

It looks at them curiously for a moment, as if they are acting extremely odd.

"Thrones." It says, voices resonating deeper than the earth as it looks back at Dean.

"Are you an angel?" Dean asks, still too stunned, but feeling his anger rising up again.

Dean realizes he's still holding Castiel in his arms as he interrogates the creature. He carefully lies him back down, never taking his eyes off the 'Thrones.' It watches him curiously for a moment, looking at Castiel before returning its eyes to Dean.

"No."

"What are you then? Why did you do this? Why did you fix him?" Dean demands, standing to confront the thing.

The Thrones actually has to look up at him from its ridiculously short vessel, but that makes it no less intimidating when it speaks again.

"Because God commanded it."

Dean stops for a second, surprised.

The Thrones turn to leave and Sam and Bobby step aside to let it pass. They can't believe their eyes when Dean throws out a hand to stop the celestial being, fingers clamping down on its shoulder.

"Wait-"

"Release." It says.

Without his permission Dean's arm goes sailing away like it was knocked back, the Hunter taking several steps back himself. It gives him a cursory glance, like he's fascinating in his blatant disrespect for what it is.

"Doesn't God know what's going on? Doesn't he care? The Apocalypse is raining down over our heads!" Dean shouts.

"I cannot presume to understand God." The Thrones answer calmly.

"Where is he? Cas has been busting his ass trying to find him while all his so called _angels _tear up the freakin' world."

"God has not ordered me to act upon their decisions. I merely follow his orders."

"So, you talk to God?" Sam says.

The Thrones regard him with an appraising stare, the kind that makes you feel like your soul is being dissected and labelled.

"Yes."

"But, then you must-" Dean starts.  
"Enough, Dean Winchester." Its voices sound, resonating with an overly powerful aura. "Have faith. God bestowed upon you a blessing, saving Castiel is more than you could ever ask for. Now be silent. Allow destiny to happen."  
"Oh, so now you're going to give me the whole vessel spiel, play your roles."

"If that is God's will it will be so. I will see to it."  
"Wait," Sam interrupts.

The Thrones turns its entire attention, the whole of heaven compressed into two tiny little human eyeballs as it focuses on him.

"Does that mean God hasn't ordered us to become the vessels? He doesn't want us to be the vessels?"

It says nothing, face completely devoid of all emotion.

"I have said, I cannot presume to understand God, though humans believe they do."

The Thrones glances once more at Dean.

"Have faith. Show faith. What is right will happen."  
With that it simply turns away, walks past Sam and Bobby without so much as a glance and out the door. The two men watch the thing all, but evaporate into the night.

* * *

_A few minutes before…._

Castiel finds himself in heaven again, alone. He's waiting, waiting for this pleasant dream to turn into a nightmare, like the last one. But it doesn't, he remains alone, the sky blue, the sun high and bright in the sky. He looks around, the vivid greens, yellows and reds of the foliage seem brighter than usual, not as focussed as they were in Heaven.  
That's when he spots someone at the far end of the park amongst the flower beds. Despite the form being female he can see past the shell of the deceptively small human to the brilliant creatures contained within it, glowing blindly bright even to his angelic eyes. Unlike any other angel he's ever met though, there's more than one Grace packed tightly into that human flesh. Castiel can't count them all, nor fathom what they could possibly be, all sharing a single vessel like that. He briefly entertains the though that his isn't a dream but a hallucination before concluding that what he's feeling is real, the auras of the Grace not ten metres from him very real as they pulse against his own. He has no more time to wonder what they are before they're turning toward him. When their eyes meet he's hit with the full enormity of what he's actually looking upon, deceptively wearing such a small female shell as a disguise.

"Thrones." He whispers, bowing his head in respect.

To do anything else to such a creature would be pure suicide. He's surprised he has any reverence left in him, after completely disregarding Heaven and the archangels. But this is no mere archangel, these are the Thrones. These are who he's been looking for, who can help him. But he's never met a Throne before, his rank would never permit something such as that, but here he is, talking to _all _of the Thrones in Creation, packed into this one vessel. The overwhelming power emanating off of so many celestial beings in one human vessel is terrifying and thrilling all at once.

"I…I need to speak to God."  
Castiel isn't sure where his boldness comes from, his sheer insanity, but the question is out before he can stop himself.

"God cannot speak with you Castiel. Not now."

A single voice rises above the rest, older than the earth and deep as the galaxy, unmarred by gender or age. Castiel can see on Grace inside the vessel glow righter, a russet hue larger than the rest. This being, this Throne is the one speaking to him now, independent of the others.  
"Does-does he know the Apocalypse has started? Where…is he?"  
The Thrones' vessel almost looks sad or a moment. That or confused.

"He sent me to speak to you. Castiel. Do you know where you are?"  
Judging from the scenery he would say Heaven, but he knows that's impossible.

"You're dying, Castiel. Your Grace has failed you and you've fallen into a coma."  
"But…The Winchesters…"  
"The Winchesters will tend to your body for another week before it finally succumbs to death. They will burn your body on a pyre in the backyard. Three days later Dean Winchester will say 'Yes' to Michael. Sam will not be far behind him. The Apocalypse will go forward. As it is written."  
"No! You can't let this happen! You must-"

"Silence, little angel. You've already defied what has been written. Nowhere was it said that an angel would fall, would rebel against God's Kingdom for the sake of humanity. I wasn't sent here to guide you to God. I was sent here to give you a choice."

"…what choice is that?"

"You can let go. You can allow destiny to happen. You will find your reward for your faithful service, Castiel. You will be at peace…Or, you can choose to live. But it will not be easy, Castiel. There will pain, there will be heartache. You will have to make decisions. This is not an easy road. It leads to where we cannot see. We don't know what will happen. The Apocalypse may happen regardless of anything you do. But God wants you have the choice."

"You mean…God…"

Castiel knows the answer even before it finishes. He will not abandon Sam and Dean, not abandon God's world or the people in it.

The Thrones close the gap between them in one bound, standing right in front of him. He tries to retreat, but he finds he can't move, his feet rooted to the spot. They're barely an inch from him.

"You've made your choice. Stay still."  
With that it wraps one arm around his waist, the other snaking around his back. It closes around his wing. His eyes roll back in his head as a mountain crushes him. He screams and screams, but it doesn't end until the darkness swallows him.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Deepest apologies for the exceedingly late update, life is a bitch sometimes._

_ :P_

* * *

_With that it wraps one arm around his waist, the other snaking around his back. It closes around his wing. His eyes roll back in his head as a mountain crushes him. He screams and screams, but it doesn't end until the darkness swallows him._

* * *

The Hunters' attention is brought back from outside by harsh breathing coming from the couch.  
"Cas?"

Dean and Sam hover over him, Bobby right over their shoulders, but keeping his distance. Castiel's eyelids flutter. Dean grabs his shoulders and shakes him.  
"Cas!"

Castiel's hands suddenly come up, clamping down on Dean's wrists, eyes dragging open. He blinks twice, eyes struggling to focus before falling shut. His tense shoulders slump and he sighs.

"Hey, stay with us." Sam encourages  
Castiel suddenly lurches up, nearly braining Dean before he leaps back. Castiel's arm twists around to his back, fingers searching for the wound, but only brushing over unbroken skin.  
"It's gone, Cas." Dean says, gripping his shoulders to emphasizes the point.

Castiel looks at all of them with bleary, slightly confused eyes. Sam is outright beaming, Dean trying to contain his joy, even Bobby is looking as happy as Castiel has ever seen him. His sudden burst of energy gives out and he finds himself slumping down. Dean and Sam scramble to support him, lowering him down slowly. Castiel's eyes are hazy, his hand roaming over his chest and his throat. Sam puts his hand gingerly to the side of his neck. He's sweltering, fiery to the touch. Castiel tilts his head towards him, weary eyes meeting Sam's.

"I'm going to go get an ice pack. He's burning up."

Sam disappears and Castiel's eyes gravitate to Dean.

"Man, are you okay?" Dean asks, trying to conceal the oppressive worry in his voice.

"What happened?" Castiel slurs, trying to sit up now that he's sure he's still alive.

"Some….some _thing_ came in here and…she said she healed you."  
"They did."

Castiel manages to sit up, feeling his muscles protest with a sharp ache, but no stabbing pain hits him. He sways and Dean's hand is on his shoulder, but he steadies quickly, examining his body more thoroughly now. He doesn't need to see to know that he's perfectly whole again, the pulsing of his Grace within reflects around his unmarred vessel. His Grace vaguely aches, overwhelmed by the power poured over it when the Thrones healed him.

"Hey, Cas, you okay?"  
"I'm fine…better than fine. I'm alive."  
A small smile and a breathy laugh come from Dean, unable to tear his eyes away from Castiel. Even Bobby looks happy, not exactly smiling, but his eyes tell the real story. Castiel carefully puts his feet on the floor, shucking the blanket and sitting on the couch properly.

Sam returns with the ice pack, giving it to Castiel who holds its soothing coolness to his Grace burned skin.

"Cas, do you know what happened?" Sam asks.  
"Yes, it was the Thrones. They healed me."  
"Yeah, that's what she called herself." Dean says.

"Who is she, Cas?" Sam asks, intellectual curiosity taking over.

"First off, she's not a she, they have no gender. And there was more than one of them in that vessel. The Thrones belong to one of the highest orders of God's Pantheon, they have far more power than ordinary Angels do. They reside in the higher realms of Heaven, meant to sing God's praise and carry his Throne."

"So, what are they doing down here? God ordered them down off their perch to heal you? Why? Not that I'm not thankful." Dean says, holding his hands up when he gets a frown from Sam.

"They said…they said it was my choice. They told me that God wanted me to choose my destiny. I don't understand it. I…I just don't understand." Castiel says quietly, resting his elbows on his knees and propping his head up on his clasped hands.

"Don't stress on it, Cas, you can't do anything about it. What matters is you're alive." Sam says.  
"But it means God is out there and…he doesn't care. He's going to let the apocalypse go forward."

"Only if we let it." Bobby says.

Everyone looks to him, a mixture of expectant and hopeful on Sam and Dean's faces and a depressed one on Castiel's.

"Look, from what she said I think it's pretty clear we're being given a choice, we can give in and go belly up, or we can take matters into our own hands."  
Dean and Sam look at each other and Castiel looks at his feet. The room goes silent for a few beats before Castiel is the one to break the silence.

"If we're going to do this, we have to deal with Zachariah and the others first."

"How?" Bobby asks incredulously.

"I don't know." Castiel replies.  
"Well, we'll figure something out. Nobody manages to beat the odds more often than the Winchester family." Dean says.

Castiel doesn't miss the pointed look Dean gives him when he says 'family.' Once again a strange wave of acceptance rolls over him, making him feel like he really is apart of this family.

* * *

Leochoir watches the human house from the front drive, invisible to all onlookers, not that there is many humans out this far. He contemplates the burned out sigils marking the gates, wondering what could have done that, but he doesn't care. The house is still warded, but it makes his job infinitely easier that he can get this close. Inside he can feel the presence of the human Bobby Singer and Castiel, his Grace diminished and weakened, but otherwise alive. He can't detect the Winchesters, but he knows they are most certainly in there. He considers making a bold move, charge in and drag the vessels out by their hair. If all went well Zachariah could probably care less about his methods, but if it fails and they escape he's sure to have his Grace shredded. He'll wait for the vessels to come to him.

It's not long before the front door opens and out steps Sam Winchester, Lucifer's vessel. It's not him that Heaven wants, though Zachariah has given him leave to use any means possible to lure out Michael's vessel. Without the aid of their traitorous Angel friend they should have no problem securing him. Together they are too strong, too fortified, but break them apart and they will fall like the pathetic human beings they are. Sam Winchester goes into the garage, digging around in the piles of junk. Leochoir approaches the oblivious human, invisible until the very last moment. He can see the flash of terror on the vessel's face when he strikes.

* * *

Dean and Bobby are sitting at the kitchen table, talking quietly. Castiel is sitting on the couch, eyes closed as he slowly reaches out to his Grace. He gently manipulates it towards his wings. He's tentative and nervous given his last experience doing this knocked him out. His Grace connects with his wing and he can feel it touch every part of his being, fleshing out the wing that once felt like it wasn't even there. It tingles, like blood flow returning to a numb limb, buzzing with energy. The more he feels his wing come back the tighter a band draws across his chest. It's nothing more than the strain, the healing taking a toll on his body. The power of the Thrones' Graces' forced into his wounds to tie him back together has overwhelmed his own feeble Grace. He's by no means up to fighting standards, but he's operated with worse, so he can deal with this until it heals. Despite the injuries having vanished from his vessel the force with which the Thrones banished the life threatening injuries has left his Grace feeling beaten, achy, which leaves his body sore and tired. That's the only reason he doesn't protest everybody's coddling. He feels worn out, so sitting on the couch and resting isn't a problem for him right now. He sits there quietly, eyes closed, collecting his energy, listening to the hushed sounds of Dean and Bobby's voices. That's when he's hit with a wave of dread so strong it makes him reel, his stomach roiling inside him. It makes him feel sick, his Grace battered by the feeling as well, causing his body to ache. He takes a deep breathe, looking over his shoulder at the door. He can see Dean still at the kitchen table, nursing an early morning beer, but Bobby is gone. He hears the click of the back door closing. It takes a moment for Castiel's tired and addled mind to recognize the anxious and frightened feeling that creeps over him. It's a deep seated fear suddenly recognized.

Sam is in danger.

He stands up so fast he lurches, losing his footing and tripping, falling to the floor with a grunt. He spends no time dwelling on the pain or his pathetic display of coordination. He hauls himself to his feet and spreads his wings, once again steeling himself against the vice like grip that locks around his chest at the action. He tries to fly, but two hands grab him from behind before he can hit the floor again.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel gasps as Dean drags him upright.

"Outside, what's wrong?"

"Don't go out there." Castiel orders.

The words are no sooner out of his mouth and Dean is turning away from him to the door. Castiel's fingers snap out, pressing hard to Dean's temple. The man collapses to the floor, face first. Castiel takes wing, flying right into the heart of his fears. He'll be damned if he's going to let anything happen to the Winchesters now.

* * *

Sam can sense the attack before he feels it, head turning out to the yard as a man appears out of nowhere and lunges. A fist collides with his head and he careens backward, smacking it again off the garage wall. The double blow has him seeing stars, collapsing onto his hands and knees. Fingers curl in the front of his shirt, lifting him up effortlessly and slamming him against the wall. His head smacks against the wood as his hands scrabble for purchase on the arms holding him off the ground by his shirt.

Bobby suddenly appears in the doorway, mouth half open as if he's about to ask a question. Leochoir casts him a brief look, enough to see the man's eyes open wide and him reach for a gun. Leochoir lets him, lets him grab his gun and fire, once, twice, three times. The salt rounds punch through his chest but he feels nothing. With a wave of his hand Bobby goes flying, crashing into an old car before hitting the ground, unconscious. Leochoir smirks, turning his attention back to Sam, hands gripping the Angel's as he struggles to try and set his feet back on the ground. Leochoir draws his sword to his hand. Nothing should bring the most self sacrificing human being on the planet running quite like his little brother screaming.

Sam drags his head up, looking at the grinning Angel, sword cocked in one hand aggressively. He grabs Sam by the hair, dragging him back to his feet. He balances the tip of his blade carefully against the corner of Sam's eye. The man's eyes go wide and a strange sound tears itself from his lips as he struggles vainly to free himself. Leochoir stabs the fragile skin, pulling a line down from the corner of his eye agonizingly slow. And Sam does scream, from pain, horror and fright at what's happening. A slow smile is just curling Leochoir's lips when his hand is wrenched away and he's shoved back by two strong hands. He stumbles, regains his footing and looks up. Before him stands Castiel, his arm wrapped tightly around Sam as he tries to stand up by himself, recovering from the shock of the attack and the suddenness of Castiel's appearance. Castiel himself looks unmarred, strong and whole again. The blemishes inflicted upon his Grace are gone. Leochoir can sense that his death is no longer imminent as it was.

"Leochoir, stand down."

Leochoir frowns, looking Castiel up and down like he's seeing a ghost.

"You're…how are you…"

"It was God's will." He says curtly. "Now stand down."  
"Or what? You are hardly in a position to tell me what to do, Castiel, betrayer of Heaven."  
Castiel doesn't have time for verbal repartee, Zachariah could show up anytime now that Leochoir is here. He wastes no time in healing Sam, pushing him behind him in an effort to protect him. His eyes quickly dart to Bobby, still passed out on the ground.

"Go back inside." Castiel orders. "Take Bobby."

Castiel has his sword out, covering Sam as he hauls Bobby up and takes him back to the house. Leochoir doesn't attack though he wants to. Once they're out of sight Castiel puts all his focus into the enemy before him.

He flares his Grace, shadow wings blazing on the wall as he holds his sword taunt.  
"Threaten us any longer and I will destroy you." Castiel says, summoning every bit of Heavenly wrath he knows he has in him.

Leochoir looks a little shocked at the bold aggressiveness of the display, but his features quickly harden back into that of an impassive Angel. His own wrath and righteousness in his cause have overcome him.

"We tried to play nice Castiel, you've had plenty of opportunities to repent, but all you do is reject us."

Castiel takes a step forward, Leochoir mirrors him. Both Angels' faces are set in anger, ready to do damage to the other.

Castiel is anxious, but he bides his time. As long as he can keep Leochoir away from his friends he doesn't need to attack. Both Angels feel it when the house suddenly becomes further shrouded, heavier warding sigils beating against their Graces' oppressively. Leochoir grits his teeth, eyes flickering from the house to Castiel.

"You're going to die Castiel. Zachariah nor Michael will tolerate your impudence any longer."  
"They're welcome to try."  
Leochoir feigns right, but stabs left. Castiel easily blocks him, lashing out with his sword. Silver cuts flesh and blood splatters, Leochoir lurching back before returning in a flurry of Grace and rage. The surge of Grace assaults Castiel, shoving him back, giving Leochoir a brief opening. The blade slams down on Castiel's wrist, cutting deep. He cries out and his hand opens, sword falling uselessly to the ground below. Leochoir grabs him, pinning his arm and driving him backwards till his back slams into a wall, shaking the whole house with the collision. His vicious snarling face is right in Castiel's when a loud bang sounds and Leochoir flinches, a circle of red appearing dead center of his forehead. Castiel seizes his opportunity, grabbing Leochoir and hurtling him into the nearest stack of cars. The Angel shouts as the metal heap cascades over him, burying him. Castiel falls back, retrieving his sword. He glances up to see Bobby in the doorway, gun in hand as he ducks back inside, watching from the edge. That's all the time Castiel has before Leochoir has dug himself free, heaving aside a small car as if he were throwing a ball. His face is a mask of unparalleled fury, chest heaving and red in the face.

Castiel braces himself, flying at Leochoir, sword swinging. They collide, metal grating, blood flying and hands grappling for some sort of leverage. Their Graces fight each other, battering at the other in a vicious sort of celestial battle compared to the physical actions of their bodies ripping at each other. Neither deals a serious blow, blood speckling both of their clothes, cuts on their arms and faces oozing the liquid and trace amounts of Grace, but nothing fatal.

Leochoir shoves hard with his Grace and Castiel is unprepared for the amount of power suddenly assaulting him, unable to control it with his weakened Grace. Leochoir lashes out, striking the side of Castiel's head.

The blow knocks him off balance, just enough for Leochoir to grab his collar. He shoves him hard against a rusted old car, so hard that it caves in, glass shattering and raining down on the ground. Castiel manages to bring his sword up, blocking, Leochoir's last deadly strike. They're locked together, arms hooked and swords shaking with deadly energy. Neither one can make a move to attack without likewise being stabbed. Leochoir snarls as he tries to force Castiel down, but Castiel fights back, pushing just as hard. Their arms are shaking, blades quivering. Leochoir's face is set in anger and frustration while Castiel is pure will and determination.

Castiel suddenly wrenches to the side and stabs up. Leochoir comes crashing down with all the force he was pushing down with, but he's ready for it. He twists and thrusts at Castiel. He isn't ready for the sudden attack. That half second is all it takes for Leochoir to shove the blade between his ribs as he twists away. He can feel his flesh rip as the blade tears out, scraping bone. He stumbles back, all noise caught in his throat in shock. Leochoir pounces on him, but not with his sword. He knots his hand in Castiel's shirt and pounds him in the face with his fist three times in rapid succession. Castiel tries to break free, but his ribs protest. Leochoir grips tighter before hurling him ten feet across the yard with such force Castiel bounces. He lands on his side before rolling, feeling his ribs crack at the impact, skin bruising and blood gushing out. When he comes to a stop he tries to move, but finds it nearly impossible. Before he can even reattempt to stand Leochoir is standing over him.

Silver flashes in the bright sunlight as he looks up. He reacts more on instinct than anything, throwing himself at Leochoir's legs with all the force he can muster. They both come crashing down, Leochoir on top of Castiel as they wrestle in the dirt, nothing better than human at this point. Castiel feels his blade slice deep through flesh a split second before it feels like his face has been torn open. He screams, throwing Leochoir's weight away and standing as fast as he can. He cups his face with one hand, feeling the gash that cuts across his forehead and through his eye, blood running liberally between his fingers. Staggering, he clutches at his sword, turning sharply to face Leochoir. The other Angel is in a similar state of agony, gripping at his chest and neck as blood soaks his clothing and dribbles down his stomach. Their eyes lock, pain evident in both of them as they prepare for the next attack.

"Dean! Stop!" Sam's voice rings out.

That's when Dean comes charging down the front steps, gun in hand, eyes skittering as he tries to comprehend the situation as fast as he can.

Leochoir's eyes snap to Castiel, wide and sharp before whirling back to face Dean. The object of his ambush is finally out in the open, ripe for the taking. He raises his hand, palm out towards the human and light explodes across the salvage yard.

* * *

The light is blinding, lethal in everyway to anything tarnished, especially souls. Castiel doesn't even have time to think, all he knows is he has to protect Dean.

Dean won't be able to survive it.

He doesn't have time to think that _he's_ not likely to survive it either. He flies to Dean, trying to grab him and shove him away, but the blast reaches him first, crashing into his left wing. The light scorches his Hell tarnished feathers, burning them.

The blow sends him spiralling to the ground on his back with a terrible shout. For a second he can't feel anything, can't feel his wing, can't feel anything.

But then it hits him.

It feels like half his wing has been cut off as he writhes, agony locking onto him. He tires to breathe, but his lungs feel like someone is squeezing them and won't let go. His wing feels like molten lava has been poured over it. He's aware of the strangely icy feeling of blood leaking from his wounds, soaking into the back of his coat. He's not sure of what happens next, only loud noises, hands touching him and a scream.

* * *

Dean tenses, shielding his eyes from the burning light as it barrels towards him. Suddenly darkness blocks it out and he looks up briefly. He watches as the attack that was meant for him knocks Castiel away, flung to the ground as if made of rages. He lands on his back with a hard _thump, _a scream tearing from his throat as his back arches. His arms flail, slamming hard into the ground. His fingers scrabble in the dirt as he convulses, his one visible eye rolling back to nothing, but white. For an instant he looks like a Demon, but then Dean is running to his side. He's on his knees, gripping Castiel's shoulders.

"Cas!"

He won't stop shaking, won't even acknowledge Dean. He hauls him up, wrapping his arms around him, trying to sill him. When his hands touch Castiel's back they come back wet, blood roiling down his back and soaking into his clothes. It's too much like that time Sam was stabbed, when he _died_. Castiel jerks against him, head pulling away. Dean presses one hand over the reopened wound, the other against Castiel's neck, holding his head still against his shoulder.

"Well, well, isn't that so sweet." Leochoir says, his voice rough and sarcastic, out of breath. "Looks like something Michelangelo would have painted, almost like the Pieta."

The Angel is bloody, as bloody as Castiel is, looking like something from a horror movie as he slowly approaches, a slight limp to his step.

Dean hunches over, trying to shield Castiel's shaking body with his own.

"Get back or I'll-"  
"You'll what? Shoot me? You can till you're blue in the face."

And that's what Dean does. He wrenches his gun from his belt and fires all six shots into the smug bastard. The Angel reels with the blows, cringing. His face twists into something similar to pain and disgust as he looks down at his chest, fingers skimming over the tatters of his shirt.

"Demon blood?" He says. "You cursed them in Demon blood?"

Dean shrugs.

"I'm a regular Michelangelo."

The Angel looks like he's actually in pain from the shots, but clearly nowhere near dead with six bullets in his chest and half his blood decorating his clothing. He takes a few steps back as Dean lowers his gun, clutching Castiel again, some futile instinct flaring as he tries to protect him.

Leochoir's face sets in cold fury and he waves one hand sharply. Dean goes flying like he's a ragdoll, arms wrenched away from Castiel.

Dean crashes on top of a car, caving in the roof before falling to the ground. His shoulder gives a loud crack as he lands in the dirt, a painful stab following that. He moans, grabbing his shoulder and rolling onto his stomach, trying to get up.

Leochoir watches him struggle for a moment before the feathers of his wings prickle warningly. He sides steps, just enough for the Molotov cocktail to whip past him and shatter on the ground in a burst of flame. He turns, finding Lucifer's vessel ten feet from him, eyes wide and arm still slightly raised. Leochoir is suddenly there, right in front of him, grabbing him by the throat and heaving him up into the air. Sam gasps, hands scrambling at the iron fingers locked around his throat. He can't touch the ground, the tips of his boots barely scraping the dirt. His vision is going dark around the edges, lips tingling.

Leochoir opens his mouth to say something when he suddenly lurches, his grip falling away as suddenly as it came. Sam goes crashing to the ground, gasping and heaving for air. Leochoir looks down at his chest, the silver tip of Castiel's blade driven through. Bobby twists the blade, jarring the Angel. Sam watches his eyes roll up as light explodes, blinding him as he wrenches his head away. A long, loud scream splits the air, dying abruptly with the light as it fades. Bobby takes his arm away from his eyes, his grip releasing the sword as the body falls to the ground. Sam jumps back a little, the dead vessel's sightless eyes gazing at him in a thousand yard stare, a trickle of blood leaking from his mouth. Bobby, breathing hard, reaches out a hand for Sam. The younger man takes it and hauls himself up with Bobby's help, rubbing his throat.

"You alright?" Bobby asks.

"Fine." Sam says, still short of breath.

* * *

Dean groans at the bright burst of white light that illuminates the yard and the deafening scream that accompanies it. He stumbles to his feet, clutching at the car beside him for support. When the light dies away he spots Bobby and Sam at the far end of the yard, safe, alive and standing over the body of a dead Angel, wings scorched long and dark into the dirt.

His eyes snap to where Castiel lies and he breaks out in a run. The Angel is still as the grave when he drops down beside him, grabbing him by the shoulders and hauling him up.

"Cas? Cas, can you hear me?"  
Dean bites his lip when he gets a good look at Castiel's slack features, blood clotting and matting half his face. His right eye is a goner, hacked right through, the clear juices mixing with the blood. He feels the warm press of bloody cloth on his leg where Castiel's injured side is pressed up against him. He wants to retch to get away from him, away from the memories seeing Castiel like this illicit, but he won't.

He can't.

His fingers press into Castiel's throat for the umpteenth time in the last day. There's a pulse, but it's hardly a reason for celebration.

"Goddamnit, Cas. Stupid, self-sacrificing, moron…"

He tears off his shirt, ripping off one sleeve to wrap around Castiel's bloody eye. Dean tears open the rips in Castiel's shirt and suit jacket, pressing the wad of fabric over the weeping wound there.

"Dean, is he…?" Sam says, coming to a stop behind Dean, Bobby a little ways behind him, but coming up at a jog.  
"He's alive." Dean says shortly.

He presses harder against the wound in Castiel's side, trying to elicit some sort of response from the Angel, proof that he's alive and feeling this.

He gets none.

Sam is down on his knees now, cupping both hands around Castiel's face as he presses down on the makeshift bandage over his eye.

"I'm going to get those sigils back up, who knows who else might show up." Bobby says.

No sooner have the words left his mouth does he turn around and come face to face with Heaven's most sadistic Angel.

"Hello, boys."

TBC


End file.
